Winter's Wind
by mermaidsahoy
Summary: Set in the North in the 1860's, at the start of the Civil War. Gone with the Wind themes throughout. Sansa is a young woman from a prestigious family, Sandor is a roguish man of questionable background. How will the war bring these two together? (Rating may change later).
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This smacked me in the head last night and wouldn't leave me alone, so I wrote it at work. Set in the 1860s, at the beginning of the Civil War, with a lot of Gone with the Wind themes, but in the North instead of the South. Most of the names will be GoT, but some places and lines and people will be from GwtW as well. Sansa, I hope, will be much in character and more likeable than Scarlett O'Hara. For Sandor, I will try to keep him in character as much as possible, with just a dash of Rhett Butler here and there. I like a forward Sandor, so he'll be a bit more outspoken. Hope you enjoy this!

(If you haven't seen/read Gone with the Wind, you should!)

Chapter One

Sansa had planned to be up at the crack of dawn to be ready for the party, but tossing and turning all night had driven her into an exhausted sleep from which she only awoke after her Septa banged on her door and threw it open. "You better get up now, Miss Sansa, or your family is like to leave for the party without you." Sansa groaned and sat up as Septa threw open the curtains to let the morning light in. Then she remembered. "Oh!"

She leaped out of bed and ran to the closet where her new dress was hanging, fresh and pressed. It was a beautiful white covered with green leaves and vines, and a full skirt that swayed like a bell when she walked. Hurriedly Sansa pulled off her nightgown and began to slip on her undergarments, fussing with her corset until Septa Mordane came to her aid. "Now you just hold tight to the bedpost, dear." Sansa did, and she gulped as Mordane pulled the strings of the corset tighter and tighter, and tied them. It was a nuisance to have to wear such a contraption, but it was what ladies wore, and Sansa was proud of her figure.

At last the corset was done, and Sansa turned eagerly to the dress. "Not yet, Miss. Let's do your hair first," Mordane said firmly, leading her to the little vanity table. While the Septa combed out Sansa's long red curls, she busied herself by applying some powder to her face and pinching her cheeks for color. She had to look her absolute best for this party. Joffrey was going to be there.

The families of Stark and Baratheon were close, although they lived in separate areas of the States, and Sansa and Joffrey had been somewhat of a proposed match between them. Though nothing had been officially said, Joffrey had been everything a gentleman should be like during his last visit, and he had even written to her, his letters filled with sweet words and promises. It had been months and months since she had last seen him, but Sansa had quite convinced herself that they were in love, and that this party could finalize an understanding between them._ Engaged_, she thought dreamily. Joffrey was handsome and stylish, a perfect gentleman. There would be no finer match in the county, she was sure of it.

The party was to be head at Twelve Oaks, the Baratheon family's Northern estate. It was beautiful and elegant, and Sansa hoped that it could become her and Joffery's permanent residence, should they become married. His family lived in the South, in Georgia, but there was had been talk of moving some their business North. And they would someone to over-see it. It only made sense for Joffrey to be in charge.

Sansa was so excited she barely heard Mordane tell her she should eat something. "Oh, nonsense. I shall eat when I get to the party." She stood and practically danced to the dress. Finally. Mordane huffed, but she helped her mistress slip the dress over her head and smooth all the billows of fabric. The front was low, lower than what Sansa usually wore, and it left her shoulders bare, but she needed to look grown-up for this party, so she pulled the front a little lower, and fluffed up the cinched flowers and ribbons, making her bosom look fuller, all the while ignoring her Septa's disapproving glare. "Your mother will say something," Mordane insisted, and she pulled the front back up. "Oh very well," Sansa conceded, and decided she would fix it later. _How wicked! I'm starting to sound like Arya!_ She thought and held back a giggle.

Finally ready, she grabbed her hat and parasol and began to make for the door. "Oh, no you don't. You come right back here and eat some of these biscuits and sausage," Mordane commanded, twirling her back around. "I don't have time!" Sansa protested. "You have time enough," Mordane said patiently. "Unless you'd rather look unlady-like later, stuffing your mouth at the barbecue." That settled the argument, and Sansa sat on the steps to her bedroom, picking up a biscuit and buttering it hastily. "And don't eat so fast! You'll make yourself sick," Mordane chided. "I'm sorry," Sansa replied, repentant. "It's just that I will be seeing Joffrey for the first time in ages, and- Her door burst open and Arya whirled in, dressed haphazardly. "Papa says you're to hurry, Sansa." Sansa practically threw the tray of food away from her and stood, grabbing on to the wall to avoid falling over from her large skirt. "Do I look alright?" she asked, nervously smoothing herself and glancing into the full-length mirror near her closet. She saw a bright-eyed, pink-cheeked girl, and wished the freckles on her nose had disappeared in the night. "You look lovely," Mordane said. "You look fine," Arya snorted. "Now hurry!" Her younger sister grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the room. "Miss Sansa! Your gloves!" Mordane called. "Keep them!" Sansa hollered back as Arya tugged her down the long staircase.

The rest of the Starks were waiting by the front door. Ned Stark was dressed in a plain suit, but he looked impressive nevertheless. Beside him Catelyn Stark was dressed in a beautiful blue gown, fussing with Rickon's untucked shirt. Sansa's heart swelled as she took in her mother. She was exactly the kind of lady Sansa wanted to be: strong, clever, kind, and gracious. Sansa had heard many times that she was very image of her mother, and it made her push her shoulders back proudly.

Robb, the oldest Stark, wore a crisp blue suit and looked very handsome. He smiled when he saw Sansa and took her arm. "Sister, I'm afraid I'll have to stay close by today." "Whatever for?" she asked. "To beat off the all the wretched young men that will try to talk to you," he answered with a laugh. Sansa blushed but giggled. "I couldn't ask for a better protector," she said, letting him lead her out the front door to where the coach was waiting. "You might need more than one," came a voice by her other arm, and she looked to see Jon smiling at her. Jon was her half-brother, near Robb's age. Sansa did not know the full story, only that her father had returned with him in hand, and raised him as one of the other children. She had not liked him, out of respect for her mother, until last summer when her horse had run away with her, and Jon had saved her from falling into the river. Then she felt foolish and regretted treating him badly, and now they were friends.

"Two protectors? But then I won't get to speak to any young men," she protested teasingly. The brothers looked at each other over her head. "Exactly!" they said in unison. Laughing, they helped her into the coach, then turned to Arya. "I can get in on my own," she huffed, climbing up, successful in spite of her long skirts, and settled next to Sansa. "You look very nice," Sansa complimented her. She was in a good mood, and wanted to be in pleasant terms with her sister. Normally they bickered a great deal. Arya turned and raised her eyebrows. "I do?" "Yes. Only…wait." Sansa licked her thumb then used it wipe off a mysterious smudge on her sister's cheek. "There. Perfect." Arya seemed surprised by her sister's praise, but smiled and mumbled a thank-you.

The rest of the family loaded in, and the coach set off to take them to Twelve Oaks.

It was a perfect day. The sky was clear and the weather warm, with just a hint of wind. Winterfell was a large estate settled in the heart of Pennsylvania, and as they passed the fields and wooded lanes Sansa thought that no estate, anywhere, could be as grand and lovely. Not even the Baratheon estate in Georgia, or the Lannister estate of Casterly Rock. Nothing could ever compare to the winding hills and rivers and fields of Winterfell.

They reached Twelve Oaks and had to wait in line behind several other coaches that arrived before them, depositing richly dressed gentlemen and women decked in their finest summer dresses. Sansa could barely keep her seat in anticipation, her eyes scanning the crowded front lawn for her friend, Jeyne. Their coach finally pulled up to the front, and Sansa almost tripped on Arya's skirt in her hastiness. The family almost immediately scattered: Jon and Robb wandered off to join a group of young men laughing around an oak tree and smoking; Arya dashed off to who-knew-where; Bran and Rickon joined a pack of boys running by; and Mr. and Mrs. Stark were hailed by a neighbor. Sansa was left to face the mansion alone, but she held her head up and swept through the open front door.

Inside was bustling with people, gathered in large groups and talking noisily about horses and crops and clothing and tobacco and the possible war. Sansa began to weave through them, pausing every time someone greeted her. "Miss Sansa, don't you look beautiful!" "Miss sansa, I haven't seen you all summer! Why haven't you called?" "Miss Sansa, that's an absolutely divine dress!" Sansa made all the polite answers, laughing merrily, all the while searching for Jeyne. She finally spotted her near the polished winding staircase. "Jeyne!" "Oh, Sansa! I've been looking everywhere for you!" The girls hugged, then stood back to admire each other's dresses. "Have you seen Joffrey?" Sansa asked, biting her lip. "Not yet, but he's probably outside." Jeyne squeezed her friend's hand. "I'm sure you'll see him soon." Three more girls joined them, and Sansa soon forgot her anxiety as she slipped into hearing and discussing the latest gossip and fashions.

A prickle suddenly ran up her neck, and Sansa had the strangest feeling that someone was watching her. Half-listening to the conversations, she glanced about the room, trying to discern where the feeling was coming from. No one particular stood out, so she eased her attention back to her friends. _Must be nerves_.

Jeyne was telling them all where she had bought her hair ribbons when she felt the prickle again, and it shot down all the way to her spine. Slowly Sansa turned her head and caught sight of a figure standing in one of the doorways, an obvious distance placed between himself and the groups of people. He was a tall man and powerfully built. Sansa thought she had never seen a man with such wide shoulders, so heavy muscles, almost too heavy for gentility, and so tall! Underneath his plain black coat was a crisp white shirt and a waistcoat, also plain, and the size of his chest was evident, matching the rest of the strength he exuded in his bearing. Her eyes fell on his tan face, half-hidden by the dim light of the doorway, but she was able to make out a firm and square jaw with dark stubble, strong and prominent cheekbones, and nose that was slightly hooked, perhaps broken at some point. He had longer dark hair that was swept over one half of his face, and Sansa thought she saw some kind of scarring. But what sent a jolt through her were his eyes. Bold and piercing black, and staring straight at her, unabashedly taking her in and appraising her with a cool recklessness. Sansa felt her skin burn and her cheeks flushed. He was watching her in a way that a proper gentleman shouldn't watch a lady; a way that seemed animalistic. And yet Sansa felt mesmerized, drawn to his gaze.

The man lifted a cigar to his mouth and drew from it, never taking his eyes from her as he released the smoke slowly. The movement made Sansa snap out of it, and she turned quickly back to her friends, feeling shaken. Was it suddenly so very hot in the room?

Trying to act nonchalant, Sansa attempted to join the conversation again, but she could feel the man's eyes on her still, burning her through. It was uncomfortable, yet it made her heart thud maniacally. She knew she was pretty, and was used to young men flirting or complimenting her, but this…this was something entirely different. He looked like he wanted to devour her. And Sansa hadn't the slightest idea of how to handle such a situation.

Eventually the other girls began to drift away towards the backyard, where the barbecue was taking place, or upstairs to check their dresses. Sansa waited until they were gone before she grabbed Jeyne's arm. "Jeyne," she whispered. "Who's that man behind us, standing at the dooryway? The tall, dark one." Her friend glanced casually over her shoulder, pretending to look for someone. She giggled and leaned in to whisper. "That's Sandor Clegane. He's a friend of the Baratheons. Used to do some business with them, I believe. They call him the Hound, but I'm not sure why." Sansa didn't know what to think of that. "He's staring at you, Sansa." "Stop looking!" Sansa pulled her friend away, eager to escape the smothering heat of the man's eyes.

It was a relief to go outside, and the fresh air mingled with the barbecue soon made Sansa forget all about Sandor Clegane, and she joined the rest of the young ladies under a shady tree, where they sipped lemonade and gossiped. Most of the girls tended to be flighty and Sansa often felt exasperated by them, but a lady of her status was expected to socialize and please, so that was what she did. Clusters of young men trickled by, paying compliments to the ladies and offering to bring them food. Sansa accepted a plate from Willas Tyrell, a shy young man with a limp. He was kind and Sansa spoke with him warmly, yet she wished it was Joffrey attending to her. She still hadn't seen him, though she had seen his mother Cersei Baratheon, and even his younger siblings, Tommen and Myrcella. Perhaps he had not come North with the rest of the family? Surely not. Sansa hated feeling so uncertain and it ruined her appetite.

The eating drew an end as the early afternoon approached, and the ladies began to retire to the many bedrooms upstairs to rest before the dancing later that day. Sansa followed them, feeling melancholy, when she felt someone touch her arm. "Miss Sansa, there you are." She turned and met the beautiful green eyes of Joffrey Baratheon. He smiled, showing off perfect white teeth. Sansa gaped at him for a moment before hurriedly offering a smile and polite greeting back, her heart pounding. "I know you are heading upstairs, but I was wondering if I might have a word with you beforehand?" he asked pleasantly. Sansa nodded and let him lead her away, feeling giddy. At last, she could speak with him! And they would be alone!

He led her down a quiet hallway and into a small library. Across the hall was a room filled with men drinking scotch and smoking and giving their opinions on the possible war, but they paid them no mind. Joffrey shut the library door behind them, and Sansa smoothed her skirts and clasped her hands eagerly.

"You look wonderful, Sansa. It's been a long time," Joffrey began. She swallowed, feeling butterflies fill her stomach. "You look very well, yourself, Joffrey. I…I have been looking forward to seeing you again." He smiled, and Sansa wondered wildly if this was the moment. Was he going to propose?

"Yes, so have I. You see, I wanted to talk to you about something, and I very well couldn't do it over a letter. You understand, I'm sure." "Of course. Some things just can't be expressed completely in a letter," Sansa managed to answer. _This is it! _Joffrey walked towards the window and looked out. "You see, Sansa, I'm going to have a large responsibility for the family business soon," he began. Sansa nodded, her exterior much calmer than what she felt inside. "And, as member of importance in our community and the business world, it is important that I marry well." Sansa's hands began to shake.

He turned towards her, putting his hands in his pockets. "I know that our families have talked about us…the possibility of a union. However, it has been decided that another union would be far more beneficial." Sansa felt her windpipe shut. What was he saying? "You see," Joffrey continued, as if he was discussing the weather. "I'm to marry Margaery Tyrell."

The room was silent, except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and the distant shouting of the men in the other room. Sansa's insides felt scrambled and cold. "Wh-what?" she managed. "I thought I should be the one to tell you," Joffrey continued, "Since…it seemed that you were hoarding ideas of our possible marriage. I wanted to let you know that it is, in fact, now impossible." Sansa felt like she was grasping for air. "But..but…I thought…" No! This couldn't be happening! "But your letters…you said…" Joffrey waved his hand flippantly, as if to ward off a fly. "I wrote what was expected, Miss Sansa." His lips pulled into a sneer. "Surely you understand. Margaery Tyrell comes from a family just as rich and powerful as the Starks, and with their trade routes, this marriage will be much more advantageous."

Her stomach hurt. Sansa grasped the back of a chair. "But..our fathers…" Joffrey only laughed. "You are a stupid girl, aren't you? My mother said you were. It's a good thing that we will no longer be matched, otherwise I'd worry for our children's sanity." Sansa gaped at him, unable to form words. "Well, I must be getting back to my guests. Enjoy the rest of the party, Miss Sansa." Joffrey crossed the room, opened the door, and left without so much as a backwards glance.

The door shut softly behind him, and Sansa stood, frozen in place. How could this be? How had things changed so quickly? She thought he loved her…and he had treated her with hardly any respect! Unbidden, tears came to her eyes, and the cold shock developed in anger. Her eyes spotted a small statue of a lion, the symbol for the Lannister family, and before she knew she had snatched it up and hurled it at the wall behind the fireplace. It smashed into a thousand pieces with a satisfying crack, and Sansa might have sat down and began to weep if not for a loud whistle, and a man sat up from the couch. He looked at Sansa, then at the smashed statue, then back at her. "Has the war started?" Sansa gasped. It was the man from the doorway, the one who had been staring at her. And he had...heard…oh…!

"You…you should have made yourself known, sir." A flush of embarrassment crept into her face as the man stood to his full height and walked around the couch. "And interrupt that heart-breaking scene? I couldn't." His voice was deep and rasping, like a saw scraping across stones. The library was not well lit, and Sansa did not like how the shadows mingled with his features. As he passed by the window, she saw that the one side of his face was, indeed, covered with scars; burn scars, at a closer look. His dark eyes glittered as he observed her, but Sansa felt too embarrassed and stunned to feel shy. "Eavesdroppers," she began. "Eavesdroppers often hear highly entertaining and instructive things," he grinned, flashing sharp white teeth at her. "You are no gentleman," she proclaimed indignantly. "You're right, I'm not," the man said as he approached her, reaching into his pocket. Sansa was suddenly gripped by fear, and losing her momentum she backed away. The man stopped, but retrieved a white handkerchief from his pocket and reached it out to her. Sansa realized she was crying. Feeling more foolish, she took it and whispered a thank-you, dabbing at her eyes and cheeks.

The man sat down in a leather chair and leaned back, his large frame filling it completely. "You look pale. You should sit down," he said motioning at the chair across from him. Sansa, still feeling humiliated, retorted, "It's not proper for a young woman to be alone in a room with a strange man." "Is that so?" he asked, sounding amused. "Well then, I'll introduce myself. Sandor Clegane," he poked himself in the chest with a long finger, "And you are Miss Sansa Stark? There, now we are no longer strangers, but acquaintances. Will you sit?" Too overwhelmed to argue further, Sansa hesitated, then sat down dejectedly.

"Mind if I smoke?" he asked, fishing a cigar from a box on the table near him. Sansa shook her head, watching idly as he struck a match and lit the cigar, waving the match out quickly before depositing it in the ashtray. Part of her wondered why she was still even in the room, but she knew she wasn't ready to go back upstairs and face all the questions from her friends, who had, no doubt, seen Joffrey pull her away. And Margaery Tyrell would be up there…

She sniffed, twisting the hankie in her lap. "Don't feel too bad," Sandor Clegane advised as he puffed out some smoke. "Think of what Miss Tyrell has to put up with now. If anything, you should be relieved." Sansa narrowed her eyes at him. "I am not relieved! It's…humiliating! Everyone will know!" He shrugged. "So? Some other scandal will blow their way soon enough, and they'll forget all about it." Sansa knew he was right, but it didn't ease the pain she felt. "I'll feel bad if I like," she said, jutting her chin out. The man chuckled, a harsh, vibrating sound, shaking Sansa's resolve. "Well in any case, your tears make your pretty blue eyes stand out. And the flush is coming back to your cheeks," he observed. Sansa's mouth dropped open. "You are…too familiar," she sputtered. "I don't see how complimenting a woman is being too familiar," he replied, looking her up and down, the hungry look from earlier returning to his eyes. "And why else would you wear such a dress, if you were not fishing for compliments?" "My-my dress?" Sansa felt so taken aback she could barely form a sentence, her mind struggling to cope with Joffrey's insults and this man's forwardness. "Yes, your dress. I like it. It shows off your pretty white shoulders. I noticed them earlier, when you were chirping away with your friends, and pretending that you didn't know I was looking at you," he smirked, taking another long pull at the cigar as he waited her reaction.

"Why of all the..." Sansa stood up abruptly. Who did this man think he was? Deep down Sansa felt pleased and flattered by his words, but she was too upset to handle them at the moment. "I don't desire to continue this conversation any longer," she said, trying to muster her dignity while she really felt like melting under his gaze. Sandor gave a long-suffering sigh. "It's getting so hard to please the ladies these days." Sansa felt her face burn. "You, sir, are an insufferable man!" He gave a barking laugh. "So the girl has spirit! A rarity, and I take my hat off to you. Not many people can even look me in the eye you know." He appraised her again, standing, and Sansa drew up a mental image of a pirate advancing upon a maiden to be ravished. He came closer, and she had to crane her neck to look up at him. "Too bad you didn't show some of that spirit to young Baratheon back there." "I'd thank you not to bring up a subject that you have no business knowing about," Sansa responded, annoyed at how he seemed to throw her off-balance. "Are you still upset about that? Come, come, my dear, that boy didn't care for you any more than he would a nice brood mare." Sansa gasped. "Really! How dare you speak to me that way!" She had a horrible feeling that he was right, but still! "It's true, though. Boys like him are all the same. And one by one they'll snatch up the girl that they feel they'll profit most from." He stamped out his cigar, then cocked his head at her. "Now you…a woman of your beauty and spirit doesn't want one of those _boys_, do you?" A wicked grin spread over his face, twisting the scars on one side. "What _you_ need is a man." Sansa could not have been more surprised if a parade suddenly marched into the room. Blushing furiously, she grasped the door handle.

"Enjoy the rest of the party. Good day, sir." She turned and swept to the door. If she didn't escape this enclosed room and this man soon she might fall apart. "Good day, Miss Sansa," he drawled, his rough voice deepening as she turned to look back him. "I have a feeling we'll met again soon." Now he was being presumptuous! "I highly doubt that," she said haughtily, before jerking the door open and making her way down the hall, using all of her strength to not glance back as she heard his laughing resonate behind her.

A/N: FYI, some of the description of Sandor is the same as the description of Rhett in the book, as well as a couple lines from both book and movie in his and Sansa's conversation. Hoped you liked it!


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Sandor laughed as he watched the girl exit in an angry huff. He went to the door and looked down the hallway at her fleeing from him, walking as fast as her ridiculous skirts would let her. He chuckled and put his hands in his pockets. That had been fun and entertaining indeed.

He had thought that morning that this party would be an absolute bore, and a buggering waste of time. But of course, the Baratheons had to showcase their wealth by putting on a barbecue and inviting almost the whole countryside, and as he was already staying at their house, he was obliged to attend as well. Sandor had no use for the courtesies practiced by the gentility, and he couldn't stand the fake and petty gallantry that the young men put on for the ladies. But the smell of food had drawn him from the library, and he had meandered through the growing crowd, which parted easily for his large frame. Most of the people shied away from him and avoided looking at his scars; a few bolder and foolish lads openly stared until he met their eyes, then they sweated and squirmed and looked away. But he was used that.

With no one in particular that he wished to speak to, Sandor had eased into one of the empty doorways and smoked a cigar, watching the swirling groups of men and women, all talking in annoyingly high voices. The young ladies were all affected and vain, strutting about with their summer dresses and smiling coquettishly at the boys. It was disgusting.

He was about to leave when he saw her.

She moved gracefully from person to person, pausing here and there for a quick word before flitting away. The girl had a bountiful of red hair that curled into soft ringlets, and her dress lay low in the front, giving Sandor a delicious view of her white shoulders and just a peek at the tops of her bosom. She was beautiful and young, pink cheeked, with merry blue eyes. He remained where he was, curious. While the girl smiled and chatted, there was something about her that was different from the rest of these petty girls, who all paled in comparison to her. She seemed distracted until she found some friend, whom she spoke with until they were interrupted by a troop of other young ladies.

Pulling on his cigar, he let his eyes wander over her figure, noting how slim her waist was. He could fit both hands around it and then some. If the skin of her shoulders and chest were so creamy and soft, he could imagine what the rest of her body was like…

He saw the girl's back stiffen, and she cast a glance around the room, a puzzled expression on her face. It ended quickly, but Sandor was suddenly determined to make her see him. He wanted her to see him watching her. So he kept his gaze heavy until her back stiffened once more, and she glanced behind her.

The look on her face had been one of surprise, then confusion, and then shyness as she realized he was staring at her. He had stayed still, letting her observe him, and enjoying the way her pretty face flushed and her pink lips parted. She turned away quickly, pretending not to feel his gaze. He chuckled, watching the other girls leave one by one. The red-head whispered to her friend, who looked over at him, then whispered back to Sansa with a giggle. The girls left soon after, and Sandor remained, wondering who she was. Clearly she wasn't used to someone like him openly staring at her, or she wouldn't have blushed and responded like that. Another woman would have either flirted back, or given him a dirty and disgusted look.

Somehow, the girl's shyness was more desirable than if she had batted her eyes and smiled at him.

He hadn't seen her again for the barbecue, and after he had eaten his fill Sandor had retreated back to the library. He had little desire to join the men in the large study room, where they were discussing politics and the up-coming war. The library was pleasantly cool and dark, and the couch was just long enough for him to lie down on while he nursed a glass of scotch.

He had just begun to doze off when he heard someone enter the library, and before he could sit up they began talking.

The boy's voice he immediately recognized as Joffrey's: no one else had such a self-satisfied, arrogant tone. The other voice was a quiet and sweet sound, and Sandor realized that Joffrey must be with the girl he had heard Cersei discussing the night before. Her name had been…something with an S….Sansa….Sansa Stark. That was it. The oldest daughter to the wealthy Ned Stark, who was good friends with Robert Baratheon.

The conversation reached the point where Joffrey let some of his cruelty shine, and Sandor couldn't resist taking a peek around the arm of the sofa to see the girl. To his utter shock, it was the red-headed goddess from earlier. She looked completely stunned and appalled at Joffrey's announcement. Sandor hid again, quickly. Joffrey was a fool. Margaery Tyrell was pretty, but she was nothing compared to this girl. Sandor suddenly became glad that this was happening, and that he was there to witness it. Not that he liked the thought of Joffrey causing her pain, but because she would now be free from the hell which had potentially loomed in front of her, and Sandor could now perhaps have a word with her… depending on how this ended.

Joffrey finished by telling the girl she was stupid, which caused him to bristle, but he waited until he heard someone leave the room. By the sniffling that started, he guessed it wasn't the girl. Suddenly something crashed against the mantelpiece, and Sandor decided to make his appearance.

His encounter with Sansa had not gone exactly as he thought it might, but it had been amusing and satisfying nonetheless. Joffrey was wrong: the girl wasn't stupid. And she was even more beautiful up close. It didn't take Sandor long to confirm his thoughts about her naivety. She was an innocent little bird, who somehow had managed enough courage to look him in the face and chirp exactly what she thought in that sweet, lilting voice of hers. He enjoyed making her flustered, as it seemed to be the way to bring out her spirit. And the more they talked, the more he decided he wanted her.

She had to know she was a beauty. She had probably heard it all her life. But Sandor doubted that she knew what her soft skin and large eyes and pink mouth could do to a man. Having consumed quite a bit of alcohol earlier in the day, Sandor felt brash enough to openly leer at her, drinking in her flushed complexion and scandalized reactions to his compliments. He was just being truthful about Joffrey, and about his own attraction to her, but apparently the girl was unprepared for such advances. Which, of course, drew him to her even more. To the point that he even told her what she needed was a man, not a boy. He wasn't sure if she had caught on to his implication, that the man she needed was _him_, specifically, because she refused to respond and instead fled the room.

Sandor leaned against the door frame, watching as she disappeared around the corner, grappling with the surge of desire coursing through him. He would have that girl. Sandor had always been gifted with a sense of intuition, and he knew that the girl had not rid herself of him so easily. They _would_ meet again.

A fresh burst of shouting erupted from the study, and Sandor reluctantly decided to go join them. Now that he knew who Sansa was, he was curious to see what her sire and brothers were like.

* * *

Sansa found a space on one of the beds next to Jeyne and lay down, but she was anything but tired. The room felt hot and stuffy, and she tossed and turned, her conversation with Sandor Clegane ever present. To her surprise she realized she was not as upset about Joffrey anymore. She still dreaded all the questions and the whispers, but her heart wasn't broken like she originally thought it was. Somehow the shock of her conversation with Sandor Clegane had rattled her more than being horribly insulted by Joffrey. In fact, she couldn't even remember why she had thought him handsome before. In a few short minutes his entire character had changed before her eyes, leaving her disappointed but not devastated.

How had Sandor known about Joffrey's true nature? He had worked for the Baratheons before, so he would know Joffrey better, she supposed. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to push the image of Sandor's mocking smirk and dark eyes out of her head. He had been crude and ungallant, yet Sansa couldn't stop the small ripples of foreign delight at his comments.

_Woman. He called you a woman_. Sansa squirmed, biting her lip. What had he meant by telling her she needed a man? Surely he hadn't been suggesting himself? Sansa almost gasped at the thought. It was unthinkable. Sandor Clegane was certainly not a gentleman, or in any case a man of class and good breeding, and her parents would never approve of such a pursuit. Besides, he was probably too old for her. Sansa was not sure, since his scars gave him a rugged and weathered look, but she had to guess that he was close to thirty. Sansa had never thought of marrying someone so much older than her.

Then she kicked herself, groaning in frustration. Why was she even contemplating such a thing? Growing annoyed with herself, Sansa decided to put Mr. Clegane out of her mind, and resolved that if she saw him again she would avoid conversing with him.

This seemed to be an acceptable solution, and Sansa decided that she would no longer think on it until absolutely necessary.

The afternoon drifted by, and soon the ladies began wake from the naps and start freshening themselves for the dance. Some of them even changed into different dresses and adorned their necks with jewelry. Sansa tried to sneak past them but Jeyne caught her arm and pulled her into a corner of the room. "What did Joffrey have to say?" she asked excitedly. Sansa sighed, dreading this moment. She glanced around the room before answering. "He very rudely informed me that he was to marry Margaery Tyrell." Jeyne's mouth fell open. "What?" "Shhh!" Sansa gave her friend a fierce look. "Now is not the time to discuss it, and I have no desire to besides." She turned to a mirror and pretended to fix her hair and dress to avoid the curious glances from the other women in the room. "All I want is to dance and forget about it, for now." Jeyne touched her arm sympathetically. "Of course. We shall still have fun, won't we? Besides, Joffrey isn't the only young man here!" Sansa gave a strained smile, trying to block the image of a dark, brooding man leering at her.

The ballroom was one of the largest in the county, dripping in golds and reds with exquisite high-backed chairs arranged for those who did not wish to dance but still desired entertaining conversation. Servers brought around little glasses of champagne and other various drinks. By the time Sansa and Jeyne came downstairs the first dance had started, so they stood against the wall to wait. People were laughing freely and everything was so bright and merry that Sansa felt her spirits begin to lift. She was determined to have a good time, and show that Joffrey had not destroyed her day. When he whirled by with Margaery she turned to Jeyne and began to gush about the chandeliers, a smile plastering her face.

The dance ended, and two young men requested their hands. Giggling, Sansa and Jeyne accepted, and soon they joined the twirling couples, laughing and sharing secret glances with each other. The young man with whom Sansa was dancing was handsome, affable and courteous, and she found herself relaxing in his company and enjoying his little jokes and comments on the party, all the while being sure ignore Joffrey and Margaery if they ever came close.

On their third turn around the room, Sansa glanced over at a group of people socializing and with a jump she noticed Sandor Clegane staring at her. He lounged against the wall, a drink in his hand, and he was appraising her with a smirk on his face, echoing his expressions from the library.

He startled her so much than she lost her footing for a moment. The young man, Harry was his name, steadied her and asked if she was alright. "Oh yes, I am sorry, I seemed to have tripped on the hem of my dress," Sansa stammered, her cheeks growing warm. Her back was turned now, but she still felt Sandor's stare. He was probably laughing at her, and thought annoyed her more than it probably should have. "Would you like to sit down?" Harry asked worriedly. "Oh no, please, let's keep dancing," Sansa replied hurriedly. They continued around the room, rejoining the dance, but Sansa was too rattled now to pay much attention to Harry's attempts of conversation. A weed of self-consciousness had taken root inside her, and suddenly all Sansa could think about what whether or not she was drawing Sandor Clegane's attention. She felt that every movement she made was being scrutinized and evaluated, and it made her want to lash out and hide at the same time. What if he asked her to dance? The very idea made her almost stumble again.

The dance ended, and Harry kissed her hand and bowed away, no doubt looking for a new dance partner that wasn't such a clumsy bore. Sansa felt her face burn, and she retreated to a wall, taking refuge behind a group of older women who were fanning themselves and sipping wine. She forced herself to not search the crowd for Sandor's face, and instead focused on the dancing, pretending to be taking a break to catch her breath, although she had only had one dance. Hidden as she was, no young men came to find her, and Sansa began to wonder if she had lost her chance at redeeming herself. She loved to dance and was good at it, and it was shame that she was wasting time standing at the wall instead of making herself available. All because of _him_.

"Sansa, what are you doing?" She started and saw that Jon had joined her side. "Nothing! I just…" she bit her lip and glanced nervously at the dance floor, then at him. A warm smile spread over his face and he offered his arm. "May I have this dance, sister?" Gratefulness seeped through her, and Sansa sent up a silent blessing for Jon. He truly was one the best people she had ever met.

Her half-brother led her to the floor and they joined the dancing. Jon's easy nature made him companionable even when they weren't speaking, and Sansa felt safer with him. She doubted very much that Jon would hand her off to Mr. Clegane if the man came asking to dance with her. Jon knew things about people, and she was sure that he would agree with her opinion of the man: that he was a rude and insufferable individual.

They passed the next few dances chatting about various topics, until Jon glanced over her shoulder with a furrowed brow. "That man, the tall dark one, hasn't stopped watching you since we started dancing, Sansa." She knew who it was without turning around, but not wishing to explain how she already had met him, she glanced over as Jon twirled her. "He came into the study earlier, when the men were discussing the war. I believe his name is Sandor Clegane." Jon studied her face, and she wondered if he noticed her cheeks coloring. "He's very opinionated. Said some interesting things. Can't say I agree with him on it all, but he is definitely very informed." "Oh," was all Sansa could think of to say. "Is...is he still watching?" Jon glanced over again. "Yes." He eyed her curiously. "Maybe he wants to dance with you." "I doubt that," Sansa replied shakily, trying to laugh it off. "Why wouldn't he?" Jon asked teasingly. "Who wouldn't want to dance with the prettiest girl in Pennsylvania?" She couldn't help but laugh. "I doubt I'm the kind of girl he would be interested in dancing with," she said, hoping that would end the subject.

Jon raised his eyebrows. "I wouldn't be too sure." "Why not?" "Because he's coming over." Sansa's mouth dropped and her heart stopped beating. "What…" "Mind if I cut in?" a deep voice rumbled behind her. Sansa turned and was horrified to see Sandor staring down at her before shifting his eyes to Jon. Before she could utter a word, Jon handed her off with a wink and a bow, and she found herself being eased back into the dance by Sandor.

Sansa was a tall girl, but her head was just level with his chest, and she felt incredibly small next to his imposing frame. One large hand had completely swallowed hers, and the other rested itself on her back, sending tendrils of heat through her dress. She hesitatingly placed her free hand on his shoulder and glanced up at him nervously. He was gazing at her, amused. "Enjoying yourself, Miss Sansa?" His voice was like a growl, and Sansa felt goose bumps rise on her skin. "I couldn't say," she managed faintly. Her hand in his trembled, and she wished desperately for some courage to return to her.

"Hmm." Sandor studied her, his mouth twitching. Dark hair fell over the scarred side of his face, and Sansa realized that the other side was somewhat comely. He had a very wild, untamed air about him, as if he had arrived to the party straight from the depths of the wilderness. As close as she was to him, she could smell alcohol mixed with a musky, thick scent. He had called her a woman, but Sansa felt more like a little girl, in a dress that was too mature for her age, and she blushed, thinking of how low the front had fallen. "Why are you dancing with me?" she blurted. "Because I want to," he answered simply. "Didn't you listen to your brother? 'Who wouldn't want to dance with the prettiest girl in Pennsylvania?' " Sansa's face flamed. "How did you hear that?" He grinned. "I have good ears. Only one of the reasons they call me the Hound." Sansa was confused until she remembered that Jeyne had mentioned the unusual nickname that morning. He moved to twirl her, and Sansa was surprised she kept her footing. Sandor pulled her back to him, closer than before so their bodies were just brushing.

Sansa hated the surprising tingle of pleasant warmth that spread through her, and she glanced up to meet his dark eyes watching her carefully and glinting with heat. _He acts as if he knows what I'm thinking, and feeling. _For a moment, the other couples melted away, and the music faded into the background, and there was only herself and Sandor Clegane, his black eyes entrapping her and pulling her into some dark and mysterious world that she was unsure she wanted any part of. He bent forward, leaning so that he could speak into her ear. "Would you like to know the other reasons they call me the Hound?" he murmured.

She never answered, for a loud shout was heard from the doorway of the ballroom. The music came to an abrupt end, and a murmur of confusion passed through the room as they all turned to see what had happened. A man stood before them, and he held a piece of paper in his hand. "I have news!" he shouted, even though the room had fallen silent. "President Lincoln has declared war with the southern States of the Confederacy!" A shockwave of shots and cries and cheers erupted in the room, and all the men hurried over to the messenger. Many people looked alarmed and began to edge for the exit. The Robert Baratheon was from the Northwest, but he had married into the Lannister family of the South, and the guests looked anxious about the announcement, wondering if it was appropriate to be inside the manse.

The dance floor turned into a swirling mass as people pushed and shoved, trying to find family members and friends. A large hand clamped on Sansa's shoulder, and she found herself being led away by Sandor, who parted through the crowd easily enough. He deposited her in front of Catelyn Stark, who was trying to keep Bran and Rickon from joining the group of men shouting excitedly. "It was a pleasure dancing with you, Miss Sansa," he rumbled, stooping down so she could hear him. "I look forward to it again." He nodded his head to Mrs. Stark, who looked at him in puzzled distraction. With a slight bow, he turned and rejoined the masses, his height allowing him to stand out. Sansa gaped after him.

It was only when they had returned to Winterfell and Sansa was braiding her hair for bed that she realized she had forgotten her courtesies and not thanked him in return.

A/N: Dun dun dun! The war is here! I apologize in advance if any of my history is a little off: I will try to do research so that facts are as correct as they can be. Also, this will mostly be a Sansa PoV story; I'm not sure if I'll add another Sandor PoV again, but I thought it would be nice to catch a glimpse of his insight before delving further into the story. Hope you enjoyed it!


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: This chapter took me a while to sort out. Book references (from both GoT and GWtW) will be everywhere, mostly in the conversations. I've got some good stuff planned for the coming chapters, so if this was a little boring please bear with me!

Chapter 3

The war changed things more quickly than Sansa could have imagined. She had never held a desire to discuss it, or even think about it. She agreed with her parents' views on slavery, that it was a degradation to the human race and no one deserved, or should, be put in that position. The Starks didn't own one slave, and Ned made sure all their servants were paid well and looked after. The family business had survived for generations like that.

Robert Baratheon had held to that way of life as well, until he married Cersei. The Lannisters were one of the biggest owners of slaves in the South, and he had eventually fallen into the slave trade as well. Sansa remembered hearing her father arguing with him on the subject more than once, and it had chipped away at their friendship. It had chipped away at the entire country as well, until war had been declared as an only option.

War meant that men, young and old, were leaving their families to join the cause. Swarms of them gathered at the recruitment offices to enlist, each with their own opinion of the adventure and stories that awaited them. They would be hailed as heroes, the brave boys in blue, fighting for the freedoms of the United States.

Among those who enlisted were Sansa's brothers, Robb and Jon, and her father, Ned. Teary-eyed, she watched them silently from the stairs. They looked so brave and handsome in their uniforms, but Sansa could not find it in herself to be cheerful for them. Anything could happen in a war: what if one of them were killed? Sansa shuddered to think of it. Ned was holding Catelyn and speaking to her softly, no doubt giving her reassurances. He had served in the militia in his younger years, so he had been granted the position of colonel. Arya stood talking to Jon, looking envious. "It's not fair. They should let girls enlist too," she pouted. "Heaven help the Confederacy if they caught you!" Jon laughed. Bran and Rickon stood by, solemn and silent. Rickon had cried almost non-stop when he realized his father and brothers were going away. Sansa felt like crying too.

Robb approached her, and she barely managed to hold back a sniff. "Don't worry, Sansa, the war won't last long," he said gently, pulling her into a hug. The brass buttons on his coat were cold on her neck. "The Confederacy isn't nearly as strong as the North, everyone knows that." She nodded, more to reassure him than herself. Jon and Arya joined them, and they stood together in a tight circle, holding on to an arm or a hand and unwilling to part.

Ned called to them too soon, however, and Sansa waited till it was her turn to tell him goodbye. "Come back home soon, Papa," she whispered. "I will, Sansa. Take care of your mother. She needs you. Both of you." He opened his other arm to Arya, and he hugged the two girls close. "After all, Winter is coming." Then he pulled away, and after giving Catelyn a final kiss, he put on his hat and went out the door, followed by Jon and Robb. The servants had lined up outside, wiping tears and wishing them safety. Three horses had been brought up, saddled and packed with a few belongings. As her father and brothers mounted, Sansa felt tears well up in her eyes, unable to shake the feeling that she was never going to see them again_. I must be strong, like my lady mother,_ she thought, glancing at Catelyn. _I must be strong like the wolves of our family crest. _

Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. Sansa was busy, helping her mother run the household. Before the war, she had attended to her lessons, but she had always had time for fun, which consisted of leisurely strolls with Jeyne, riding her horse with Arya, or visiting town. And of course attending frequent parties and social events. Now, however, Sansa didn't have time for such things. The men were off fighting in the wilderness, and the women came together as a community to create support for the cause. Catelyn Stark became a great advocate in town, and she and many other mothers gathered together to sew uniforms and ask for donations. Sansa went with her, eager to be of help. Any of these uniforms might be worn by Robb or Jon, or Papa, she mused, and so she sewed buttons and pockets with care, proud of her neat little stitches.

Arya refused to sew, but she accepted a part in raising donations, and she spent whole days riding about the county and proclaiming the war effort. She would join their mother and Sansa in town when they came to get the newspaper. Every time they would join the masses of other women and boys too young to fight, reaching eagerly for a paper and almost tearing it apart as they read the list of names that meant a father, a brother, a son, had died. Sansa saw many names of boys she had known all her life, boys with laughter and futures, all reduced to words on a printed page. After gazing at the list and seeing neither Ned, or Jon, or Robb, they would look at the prisoner of war page.

And everywhere, the sounds of anguished women filled the air, crying as they realized a loved one would never come home. Then Catelyn would descend from their carriage and move amongst them, offering comfort and sweet words. Sansa wished she had the strength to do so, but all she felt was a numb sadness, watching the people around her. Arya would sit by her, perusing the rest of the paper, looking grim.

It was times like these when Sansa thought about Sandor Clegane. She had not seen him since the barbecue at Twelve Oaks, which seemed a hundred years ago, and she wondered if he had enlisted, and if so, what side he had joined. He was friends with the Lannisters, so maybe he had chosen the South. Sansa didn't like to think of him fighting against her father and brothers.

She wasn't sure when it had happened, but somehow Sandor Clegane had joined the list of names she prayed for at night. She always prayed for her father, and for Robb and Jon, and for some of the other men she knew, before reaching his name. She really didn't know him well; he had been crude and the thought of his frame towering over her still sent a shot of alarm through her body, but she did not want him to get hurt or die, either. Besides, it seemed the right thing to do.

One day they were in town for the news and Catelyn had once more slipped away to comfort the broken families around them, offering sincere smiles and hugs. Arya announced that she was going to go find a treat for Bran and Rickon, trying to hide the tears in her eyes. One of her friends, Gendry, had been listed as a prisoner of war. She jumped off the carriage and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Sansa by herself. She sighed and glanced at the newspaper, then at the sea of sad faces around her. They were all wrong, she realized. This war wasn't going to end any time soon. It was already lasting much longer than everyone had said. A dark shape appeared next to the carriage, startling her from her reverie.

It was Sandor Clegane. He sat astride a large and fearsome black horse, wearing a simple shirt and coat. Unlike most men, he left his head bare, the slight breeze catching the dark strands of hair. "Miss Sansa," he spoke, nodding to her. Surprised, Sansa nodded back. What was he doing here? She watched as he raked his eyes over the people milling by before letting them rest on the newspaper in her lap. "Anyone you know?" he asked quietly. "Always someone we know," Sansa answered sadly. He looked grim. "Aye. That's what war is. It's a bloody waste, too." Sansa eyed him curiously. "Are you not fighting yourself, sir?" He snorted. "No, little bird, I won't be enlisting on either side. I've already done my time in the army, and I don't see much good it will do me to join again." His mouth twitched as he looked her up and down approvingly. "Besides, someone's got to make sure the ladies don't feel too neglected." Sansa's cheeks burned, but she fought to keep eye contact with him.

"Don't you care what happens?" she inquired. Sandor shrugged, easing his horse closer. "My work was not affected before the whispers of war, and it isn't now. I doubt it will be much after the war ends, either." "Why, what do you do?" she asked, then bit her lip for asking such a question. Sandor gave her a wicked grin that made her stomach flip-flop. "Well aren't we inquisitive today." He leaned in towards her, keeping one hand on the reins and placing and arm on the top of the carriage seat. "If I didn't know any better, Miss Sansa, I'd say you were trying to get to know me." She blushed furiously and shuffled through the papers in her lap. "Don't be ridiculous," she choked. "It was a simple question. There's no need to make it more than it is." A quick glance at his amused expression told her was not deterred. "Now, now, don't get your feathers ruffled, little bird," he said with a smirk. "I don't mind answering your questions, but I'd prefer to do it in a more…pleasing atmosphere." The comment made Sansa aware of the distress around her once more, and she felt her shoulders droop as a mother walked by, crying and holding a pair of woolen socks that her son no longer needed.

She turned back to Sandor Clegane, who had returned to a more proper distance but continued watching her with his dark eyes. The humor left his face, and he nodded to her gravely. "Until we speak again, Miss Sansa." Without awaiting a reply, he pulled his horse around and began guiding it through the crowd, leaving Sansa more confused than ever.

A few more weeks went by, and one morning Catelyn called Sansa to her bedroom. Sansa sat in a comfortable easy-chair, watching as her mother's maid fixed her hair. It was long and red like Sansa's, and she hoped that one day she would look as beautiful as her mother always did. When she was little she would play dress-up with her mother's long gowns and drape necklaces over herself. Sometimes Catelyn would let her use a bit of perfume from the little glass bottle that came all the way from Paris. It always made Sansa feel very grown-up, and even now she longed to open the vial and rub some on her wrists.

After the maid left, Catelyn turned to her daughter and held up a piece of paper, the wax seal broken. "I have received a letter from my sister, Sansa. Lysa has been very lonely since Little Robert died, and she desires that you come and stay with her for a while in Gettysburg. Would you like that, Sansa?" Sansa was surprised, and a feeling of excitement overtook her. Gettysburg was farther away in Pennsylvania, but it would be a fresh change of scenery, and perhaps a livelier escape. "I would like it very much, Mama. That is, if you can spare me here." Catelyn smiled at her. "You have been an enormous help to me, Sansa. I know it hasn't been easy for you to put aside your friends and usual activities. This war has caused everyone to make sacrifices, and it is good that we all struggle at some point in our lives. However, I think this trip would do you good, and perhaps bring back some of the color to your cheeks." Her mother patted her hand, and stood to walk to her desk. "I will write to Lysa and tell her you will be coming to her in a few days."

Walking back to her room, Sansa felt overjoyed. Aunt Lysa was a strange and somewhat flighty woman, but she had always been kind to her and preferred her to the wildness of Arya. No doubt she would introduce Sansa to all the best circles of society. It would be nice to have some entertainment after so long, she reflected. Perhaps there would be some parties or social gatherings, where they could discuss something else besides the war.

Three days crawled by, but finally Sansa found herself climbing into a carriage stuffed with her trunks and little boxes, and waved goodbye to her mother and sister and brothers. Arya had been quiet and sullen since she heard Sansa was going away, though Sansa wasn't sure if it was from jealousy or not. Bran looked calm as always, and Rickon was too busy trying to eat a grasshopper to notice his big sister's departure. "Goodbye!" Sansa called, waving merrily. "I'll see you again soon!"

The journey took almost two days because of the slow carriage, and Sansa and her maid stayed the night at a lovely inn which had received word of their arrival, and had fixed a room up for them quite nicely. Sansa was already beginning to rejoice at leaving Winterfell. She loved her home dearly, but it had begun to feel like a prison, and she longed for a brighter atmosphere.

At last she landed in front of her aunt's beautiful little house, and was greeted warmly by Lysa and all the servants. Her bedroom was smaller than at home but darling, with a big white bed and a bay window that overlooked the street. Gettysburg was not large, but it bustled with people, and Sansa soon found herself with many invitations to dinner parties and women's sociable, all of which she attended eagerly.

It was in Gettysburg that she learned something about Sandor Clegane. Apparently he had become a blockade runner, sneaking into Southern ports and smuggling goods and supplies back to towns in the North that were struggling from the war and their proximity to the Confederate armies. He frequented Gettysburg in between his trips, and Sansa heard the other women whispering about him occasionally. She was in the parlor with Aunt Lysa and her neighbor Mrs. Lucas when they began to speak of him. "He's certainly brave," Mrs. Lucas commented as she took a sip of tea. Sansa pretended to focus on her sewing, but her ears were alert with interest. "Hmph!" Aunt Lysa snorted. "Blockade runner or no, that man is a bad seed. Why, I've heard stories about him that would make your hair curl!" The two women glanced at Sansa, then leaned closer together, and she could barely catch their next words. "I heard he's a violent drunkard, always getting into fights in the saloons, and that when he worked for the Lannisters he was a mercenary." Mrs. Lucas, eager to gossip, decided to share what she had heard. "They say that he always carries a gun on his person, and one man said that he heard from another man that said he shot someone who tried to cheat him at cards, and he laughed about it after." "Rotten to the core," Aunt Lysa agreed. "A good-for-nothing. He'll cause trouble in town, mark my words." Sansa was shocked at what she heard, yet somehow it didn't seem too surprising. Something about him had always felt off to her, but she couldn't help but wonder how many of the stories were enhanced. He hadn't seemed that malicious to her, but who knew?

The ladies at a social later that week all confirmed that he was very bad man, prone to violent outbursts and altogether unsavory, and that they should all keep their daughters away from him. Sansa wondered what they would say if she told them she had danced with him before.

* * *

A fundraiser for the war was planned, and it promised an evening of fun and enjoyment. It was for a good cause, after all, and the high society of Gettysburg eagerly prepared for it. Sansa rode to the event with Aunt Lysa, feeling beautiful in her new dress and shoes. It was a cool night, so she had worn her hair down in loose waves with just the sides pinned up. The party hall was already crowded when they arrived, and several booths were set up where they would be taking donations. The women in charge were asking for any little bit of gold and silver someone could spare, and coats and shirts and shoes. Sansa had spent hours sewing little American flags on dozens of handkerchiefs, and felt proud as she dropped them in one the baskets. _Perhaps one will go to my brothers and Papa_, she thought hopefully.

It didn't take long for the orchestra to strike up, and music filled the hall. The dancing wouldn't start until later, however. The mayor had planned a special fundraising event for that.

Sansa stood by herself for once, admiring how the boring hall had been transformed into one decked with red white and blue and gold. Everyone was dressed in their best attire, grateful for a distraction from the war and an opportunity to show how well the North was doing in spite of everything. Sansa suddenly felt homesick for Winterfell, and her family, and she unconsciously began to rub her arms, withdrawing into her thoughts.

"Cold, little bird?" came a rasp next to her, and she turned to see Sandor Clegane looming over her, his mouth twitching into a grin. He was dressed in finer clothes than she had seen him before, but he was still very underdressed compared to the other gentlemen in the room. "What are _you_ doing here?" she asked in surprise, and reddened. _How rude of me!_ She opened her mouth immediately to apologize, but he spoke first. "I'm here because I was invited, little bird." He eyed her as he took a sip of the amber-colored fluid in his glass. "And why are you so far from your nest?" Sansa felt annoyed and nervous in turns. What right did he think he had to give her a nickname? "I'm visiting my Aunt Lysa, if you must know," she answered stiffly, trying not to appear as shaken as he made her feel. Unable to hold his gaze, she shifted her eyes to the rest of the room, fidgeting with her hands. He remained next to her, however, occasionally sipping at his glass, but he didn't say anything.

Sansa realized that she really had no excuse to be rude to him. He was forward, true, and probably enjoyed baiting at her with his comments, desiring some kind of reaction. But she would not lose her courtesies in front of him. She would remain polite, and perhaps he would then be bored of her and leave her alone. _But do you really want him to leave you alone?_ The thought emerged unbidden, and Sansa quickly stuffed it away. A true lady did not lead a man on, especially a man like Sandor Clegane.

Gathering her wits, she asked, "How long will you be in Gettysburg, Mr. Clegane?" His mouth twitched as he glanced over her face. "I haven't decided yet. Still running the blockade." A spark suddenly glinted in his eyes. "But something has come up, so I think I'll stay longer than I originally planned." Sansa nodded, unsure of what to make of that cryptic comment. _Is he staying because of you? _Sansa almost gasped at her own thoughts. _Of course not! Don't be silly._ She looked up to see him smirking at her, as if he knew what she was thinking. All her efforts to be controlled almost vanished instantly, and she felt a snake of nervous fluttering squirm in her stomach. The room was becoming way too warm.

Just then Percy Anderson, a young man whom Sansa had become acquainted with at several social functions approached her and bowed, reaching to kiss her hand. "Miss Sansa, you are looking absolutely exquisite this evening." Instead of feeling pleased or flattered, Sansa felt a rush of embarrassment. She dared not look at the Hound as she struggled to return a polite smile to Percy. "Thank you, Mr. Anderson, you are very kind." "Please, call me Percy," the young man insisted with a smile, purposefully ignoring Sandor. A quick glance out of the corner of her eye showed that Sandor was giving Percy a look of distaste and a frown now pulled at his mouth. Sansa had no idea why she did what happened next. "Very well then, Percy." She gestured at the Hound. "Have you met Sandor Clegane?" Percy pretended to just notice the other man, which irked her. As if he couldn't see such a large man had been standing at her elbow. She watched as the two hesitantly shook hands, giving each other once-overs, and she was struck with how differently Percy compared to Sandor. He was slim, dressed in a fine grey suit, with light brown hair and eyes, and Sansa had thought him handsome in a way. But standing next to Sandor, he looked very young and overly stylish. She remembered Sandor's words from the barbecue: _You don't want a boy. You need a man. _Sansa flushed again, for she could see exactly who was the boy and who was the man

"Sandor Clegane," Percy said, trying to draw himself up and not look intimidated by Sandor's imposing form and presence. "I've heard a great many things about you." "I'm sure you have," Sandor responded, sounding bored. "I'm the type of man most people say things about." Percy glanced at Sansa, but she only smiled politely. She felt a greater twinge of annoyance towards the young man, thought she wasn't sure why. "Which is why it is a surprise to see you here," Percy continued, "and in the company of a lady such as Miss Sansa." He attempted to sound gallant, like he was shielding Sansa from something truly horrible, yet he had also managed to slightly insult her as well. All she could see was his pompous behavior and arrogance, which to her was decidedly in bad taste after what she had experienced with Joffrey. "I'm glad my reputation precedes me," Sandor responded, looking down at him coolly. "Though it seems you did not pay much attention to the details, else you might have chosen your words more carefully."

Sansa sensed something in the air change, and the whisper of danger radiated off Sandor in waves, and though he remained still and casual, his face had darkened with challenge, and she remembered the gossip from her aunt. Percy must have felt it too, for he took a step back, licking his lips nervously. Sansa found that she had no pity for him. He sniffed at Sandor with disgust and turned towards her. "Miss Sansa, would you perhaps like to get a drink? It would be my pleasure to escort you to more civilized conversation." Sansa bristled, and raised her chin in the air. "As a matter of fact, Percy, I was just asking Mr. Clegane if he would accompany me to get a drink. Perhaps another time." She reached over and looped her arm through Sandor's and smiled up at him. "Shall we?" she asked softly.

Sandor stared at her a moment before letting a smirk spread over his face, his dark eyes twinkling at her. "As you say, Miss Sansa." He began to lead her away, and Sansa glanced back to see Percy glaring at him with hardly concealed hatred, his face a fascinating shade of red. She bit her lip and tried to suppress a giggle, knowing that what she had done was frowned upon, but for the moment, she didn't care.

She looked at her hand which was resting in the crook of his elbow. It was so small compared to his arm, and even through the fabric of his coat she could feel the hardness of muscles underneath, and a blush crept over her cheeks. They arrived at a table filled with an assortment of drinks, and Sansa took a cup of punch while Sandor refilled his whiskey, all the while trying to avoid his gaze. She couldn't believe she had acted so…so...flirtatious, and now that the adrenaline was wearing off, she felt shy and a little ashamed.

No one else in the room had observed the confrontation, and now Sansa had no idea what to say to this man who seemed intent on constantly popping into her life unexpectedly. He was so unlike anyone she had ever met, and she had a feeling he wouldn't be interested in any of the usual topics of conversation. Sansa normally had no trouble conversing with others, but with him her mind seemed to be empty.

Sandor leaned over and placed his hand on the smooth marble pillar on her other side, so that his arm was in the air behind her. "So, little bird, are you going to be in town for some time?" She had crane her neck to look into his face. His scars were bad, she thought, and they still frightened her a little, but she forced herself to meet his eyes instead. It wasn't polite to stare, after all. "I suppose so. Mother hasn't sent for me to return to Winterfell yet." He seemed pleased by this answer, and Sansa began to muster up the courage to ask him about the blockade when someone suddenly called her name. "Sansa! Sansa, come here." Aunt Lysa materialized in front of them and took Sansa by the arm. "If you'll excuse us," she said in a strained tone to Sandor. Sansa's mouth fell open at her aunt's rudeness, but she was pulled away, and only able to mouth a "sorry" over her shoulder to the Hound, who wore an indiscernible expression, save for the amusement in his eyes.

Aunt Lysa marched her to the other side of the room. "Sansa, whatever are you doing, conversing with such a man! What do you mean by it?" "I-I…" Sansa was at a loss of what to say. "Haven't you heard anything I've said?" Sansa was horribly frustrated. "He's been running the blockade, and risking his life," she protested. "All for his own benefit," Aunt Lysa sniffed. "You steer clear of him, my dear. He's a bad sort, and not fit for your company." Before she could say anything, the Mayor, Mr. Wilkins, took the stage in front of the orchestra. "Ladies and Gentlemen! Thank you all very much for attending this fundraiser. It is a privilege and an honor to…" he continued to spout off all the right words to say at such an event, and even though Sansa tried to listen but her mind continued to wander, mulling over what she had heard about the Hound and her own conversations with him. She determined that she would ask him the next time they shared a word.

"And of course, we have Sandor Clegane to thank for running the blockade for the Cause, delivering much needed supplies to our towns and our troops," the mayor was saying, and an applause was sounded in the hall. Everyone seemed to momentarily forget that he was a bad person. Sansa craned her neck and saw him still standing by the pillar, his mouth twitching, and he raised his glass towards the mayor on stage before taking a swig. Aunt Lysa muttered something under her breath.

"And now, the bidding for the first dance!" Mr. Wilkins proclaimed. "All donations will go straight to the Cause, clothing and feeding our brave boys in blue! Come on now, men, step up! Who are the lucky ladies going to be?" A murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd, and several men began shouting out the names of women in the hall, raising dollar bills above their heads. $5.00 for Miss Kitty Parker!" $10.00 for Eliza Marsh!" Sansa watched as the other girls giggled and fluffed their dresses, smoothing their hair back so that their shoulders showed and waved at their suitors. As much as she wanted to dance, she wasn't sure she wanted to this way. What if someone she detested bid for her? That would be awful.

More than half of the ladies had been bid for when someone called out, "$10.00 for Miss Sansa Stark!" Sansa turned and saw with a dreadful sinking in her stomach that the bidder was Percy Anderson. A couple other young men bid for her as well, giving her a ray of hope, but it was dashed quickly when Percy raised the bid for $50, and the others stepped out. Her heart was sinking as Mr. Wilkins called, "$50 for a dance with Miss Stark! Anyone else?" Percy looked smug with victory, glad to be able to show off his wealth. $55!" a man with a deep voice rasped from the back of the room, and everyone turned to see Sandor Clegane making his way calmly through the crowd, which parted quickly for him. Sansa's mouth dropped as murmurs buzzed around her. Percy looked scornfully at him. $60!" he said triumphantly.

Sandor drew closer to the stage, not even sparing Percy a glance. "$70," he responded. The room had grown to a hush at his voice, rough as a saw on stone. Aunt Lysa was muttering angrily under her breath and clutched Sansa's arm, but she did not hear her. She couldn't take her eyes off of the Hound, his face impassive. "$75," Percy bid forcefully, giving Sandor a challenging look. "$80," he responded without hesitation. Sansa gulped and felt her face flush as people started to stare at her. So much money! Surely he couldn't continue after this! "$85!" Percy was almost shouting, though the room was quiet and there was no need. The Hound's dark eyes swung over and met Sansa's, and her knees turn to jelly. "$100," he said.

Percy looked outraged, but he would not back down. "$120!" He was digging in his pockets now. As one, the crowd turned to see what Sandor would do. Still calm, he raised his glass to his lips and before taking a sip he said, "$130." The whispers were growing louder. Several of the other girls were eyeing Sansa resentfully, jealous that they had not been bid for so much, and by a famous man like the Hound. "The man is mad," Aunt Lysa insisted. Percy glared at Sandor and raised his chin defiantly. "$150, and 62 cents!" The crowd held their breaths and leaned forward, eager to not miss a single moment. What a scene! It would be talked about in Gettysburg for ages.

Sandor, still looking at the mayor on stage, finally allowed a small smirk to pull at his mouth, the scars twisting."$200." Sansa sucked in a great lungful of air, astonished. Everyone else gasped audibly. No one had ever bid that much before, not for anything! The room fell completely silent in suspense, waiting for Percy's response. His face changed from red to purple, and he opened his mouth, but nothing would come out as he stared furiously at the Hound. "Ah…$200...going," the mayor managed to stutter. Percy turned and stalked away, pushing people over in his haste to disappear. "$200 for a dance with Miss Stark!" Mr. Wilkins pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow. "Ahem, well…yes. Let's continue!"

Sansa stood frozen until she realized her aunt had fainted away, barely managing to fall into a chair. She gasped and began fanning her as some other women crowded around, asking for smelling salts and water. "Aunt Lysa! Can you hear me?" Her aunt raised a hand to her breast. "Oh…it's a disgrace…" she moaned. "What would Catelyn say? Her daughter dancing with the Lannister dog…" Sansa stopped fanning her and backed away, letting the other ladies hover. Her aunt's words made her uncomfortable, and she had had more attention towards her person than she would have liked. Turning, she almost ran straight into a Sandor Clegane's chest. "Oh!" Heat rushed through her as she stared up at him. "Little bird," he rumbled. "Do you wish to dance?" With a start she realized the bidding had ended, the musicians had struck up a song, and the couples were flowing to the dance floor. "Oh…yes." He took her arm and gently led her to the outskirts of the floor, holding her like he had the first time they danced.

Sansa figured she should say something to him, anything. She couldn't believe that he had bid $200 just to dance with her; how had he come across such money? Perhaps he was wealthier than she had been led to believe. She peered up at him to see that he was gazing at her still, always with that same amused expression on his face. "It's-it's very brave of you, to be running the blockade," she said slowly. His dark eyes fixed on her mouth. "No need to chirp your courtesies with me, little bird. I'd prefer you to tell me what you really think, rather than what you believe I'd like to hear," he rasped. Sansa was taken aback. "I don't know what you mean." "Of course you do. You've been taught well, little bird, to chirp and repeat all the pretty things you've been taught that a lady should say." Sansa had the feeling he was mocking her, and she frowned. "Well, I am a lady, aren't I?" Sandor grinned. "You are, but you're different. When I met you at that barbecue, I knew." "Knew what?" "Why, that you have spirit. That if you get riled up enough you'll say exactly what you think, and won't be afraid to do it either. Unlike the rest of these silly little fools who believe everything their mamas tell them and act on it. Which is what _you'll_ keep doing unless I teach you otherwise, I'm afraid. Though, I do find your innocence to be very endearing." She narrowed her eyes at him. She knew he was trying to trap her, but she could not help her temper flaring. "You're an insolent man," she responded. His grin only widened. "There, you see? I saw it when I first met you and I'm seeing it now. As for the blockade, it's a business to me and I'm making money out of it. When I stop making money out of it, I'll quit. What do you think of that?" Sansa was appalled. "I think that what everyone is saying about you is true." "Oh? And what is everyone saying about me?" "They say you are a wicked man." He threw his head back and laughed, drawing some stares from the other couples. "Well, that's true. I am very wicked man." Sandor smirked devilishly. "What else do they say?" "That you're a mercenary rascal." Sansa couldn't believe she was still dancing with him. Just when she thought he might be different than what everyone said, he was only proving them right!

"Exactly so," he agreed. Sansa felt frustrated. "If you don't care about the Cause then why did you bid two hundred dollars?" she asked. "You made quite a scene. Everyone is going to be talking about it." He shrugged. "I wanted to dance with you, and I wanted to see that Anderson peacock blow up like a volcano. Besides, you don't really care what they say, do you?" "Well…" "You aren't committing any crime, are you? Why not dance with me?" "But if Mother ever…" "Still tied to mama's apronstrings." "Oh, you have the nastiest way of making virtues sound so stupid." "But virtues are stupid. Do you care if people talk?" "A lady is supposed to care!" "At Twelve Oaks you didn't seem to care. Most other girls would have cried their eyes out and run home after what Joffrey did, but not you. You held your head up and danced. Now tell me again." "Oh, how you do go on! Fine, I don't really care that I'm dancing with you and people will talk." And to her surprise and chagrin, Sansa realized it was true. Even more annoying was that deep down, she _wanted_ to dance with him. "Very good! Now you're beginning to think for yourself rather than let others think for you. That's the beginning of wisdom." "Oh, but…" "When you've been talked about as much as I have, little bird, you'll realize that it doesn't really matter. Just think, there's not a home in Gettysburg that will receive me, all because I'm a scoundrel. Even my contribution to the Cause won't lift the ban." Sansa's mouth dropped open. "How dreadful!" "Oh, not at all. I feel quite free in spite of my tainted reputation." "You do talk scandalous!" "Scandalously and truly. A dog will die for you, but never lie to you. And he'll look you right in the face." It took Sansa a minute to understand the dog was in reference to his nickname, the Hound.

"I think the song might be ending soon…Mr. Clegane, you mustn't hold me so tightly, I'll be mad if you do." He only chuckled darkly and pulled her closer, so she could feel the heat coming from his chest. "Will you really? You look gorgeous when you're mad. You have no idea how charming you were that day at Twelve Oaks when you were mad and throwing things." She groaned. "Oh, please, won't you forget about that?" "No, it is one of my most priceless memories. A delicately nurtured little Northern bird angrily breaking things in someone else's home. It was magnificent." Sansa had never felt so bewildered and off-balance in her entire life. "Oh dear, the song has ended. And here comes Aunt Lysa." As they stopped dancing, her aunt was making her way through the crowd, apparently revived from her earlier fainting spell. "Thank you for the dance, Mr. Clegane." Sansa curtsied just as her aunt grabbed her arm and began pulling her away. "My pleasure, little bird," Sandor rasped, shooting Aunt Lysa a nasty grin that made his scars look even more fearsome.

The rest of the night passed, and Sansa did not see Sandor Clegane again. When they arrived back at Aunt Lysa's home, she fled to her bedroom, eager to escape the almost non-stop lecturing pouring out of her aunt's mouth. After changing for bed, she went to a drawer and dug through it until she found the handkerchief the Hound had given her at the barbecue. She had no idea why she still had it, or why she had brought it with her to Gettysburg. In the corner was stitched three black dogs. Absently, she lifted it to her nose and took a sniff to find that it still smelled faintly of him; whiskey and cigar smoke and something else manly and completely belonging to him alone.

In the morning, as they breakfasted over waffles drenched in maple syrup, the news came: Confederate troops had invaded the North.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Gettysburg was thrown into a fit of anxiety and alarm. Many people could not comprehend the idea that the Confederate army had actually pushed the Union far back enough to be able to invade the North, and were now crawling along the borders of Pennsylvania.

Sansa wrote to Winterfell in alarm, and received a letter back that everything was fine, and everyone was in good health, relieving her for the time being. It was the last letter she received, for shortly after the roads were shut down to the mail coaches.

After one battle, wounded Union soldiers by the hundreds arrived to fill up the hospital, and Sansa joined many of the other women in becoming nurses. She knew little of medicine, but as long as she could provide a cool drink of water or wipe the sweating brow of a feverish soldier, she felt that she was doing some good. Sansa became a favorite for many of the wounded, because she always had a kind word to say and was willing to listen. Once she held the hand of a young man who told her of how she reminded him of his sweetheart, and he died shortly after. Sansa didn't even have time to pray for him because his body was immediately covered and taken away so that the bed could be used for someone else. She saw men with missing limbs, blood and puss seeping through bandages, and heard their cries of anguish as fever and pain rocked them. Even though she hadn't experienced a battle, Sansa could agree that war was, indeed, hell.

Aunt Lysa didn't exactly approve of her niece's participation in the hospital, but Sansa won her over, telling her how proud her mother would be and how she wanted to be there in case one of her brothers or father came in. Besides, the hospital was in desperate need of extra hands as the doctors and trained nurses were pulled from every direction. Just as they thought things might be improving, a new group of soldiers would arrive, and there was hardly any room for them.

Sansa had not really seen much of Sandor Clegane since the fundraiser in the weeks to come, but she had heard that he was continuing to run the blockade, and this time he was bringing supplies for the hospital. It was such a relief when the wagons would arrive filled with crates and barrels of medicine and wrappings and fresh linens. Sandor would be there, barking out orders to the men helping him, but they would only manage to share nod. _He's no gentleman_, Sansa mused, _but he's doing a_ _grand thing all the same. _As for the man himself, he was said to frequent the saloon in between visits, drinking and gambling. She felt a little put off by his actions, then wondered stubbornly why she even cared. It wasn't like she really knew him well, and he had never said that he would visit her, or that she should have any kind of expectation of him. Trying to ignore the uncomfortable tugging in her chest, she threw herself into the work at the hospital.

One summer night Sansa stayed later at the hospital than usual, flying back and forth to carry water and bandages and sew shirts, until Doctor McCreary caught her by the arm and told her to go home before she ran herself ragged. Agreeing, Sansa wearily started for her aunt's house. The night was calm, and few people were out on the streets. The hospital was not far from home, so Sansa felt perfectly fine walking. It was nice to breathe in the fresh air after being cooped up in the hospital, surrounded by bitter-smelling medicines and the metal scent of blood.

Her stomach rumbling with hunger, Sansa thought of the lovely pork roast that was sure to be waiting in the kitchen for her, and she decided to take a short-cut down a side street rather than go all the way around down the Main. She would have to cut across a darker part of town, but no one was about and Sansa was not worried.

As she went down the side street and entered the other side, she noticed the saloon on the opposite of the street. Yellow light poured form the windows, and she could hear loud guffawing from the men inside, who were no doubt drinking and playing cards. The upstairs windows were lit too, with gauzy-looking curtains that purposefully allowed dark silhouettes to be seen from outside. Sansa knew that was where men went to seek the company of certain women, but beyond that she was ignorant. She wasn't sure why a man would want the company of a woman who was clearly not a lady of any title or good society over a woman who was. As she crossed over to the other sidewalk, she heard a woman laughing, and looked up to see the silhouette of a man in the window. He parted the curtains and looked out, smoking a cigar, and a woman came and draped herself over his arm. Sansa was shocked to see she was wearing only a red corset and feathers in her hair. Scandalized, she turned away, when two men came reeling out of the saloon, laughing and talking. They caught sight of her one of them made a low, dramatic bow.

"Evening, little miss," he slurred. "Why don't you come have a drink with us?" "No, thank you," Sansa responded, hurrying away from them. They didn't follow her, but she could hear them laughing and calling out to her. She rounded a corner and bumped into something tall and hard. It reached out and grabbed her shoulders, steadying her. "Oh!" She started to try to wriggle away when she saw who it was. "What are you doing out here at night, little bird?" the Hound asked. Sansa felt a small wave of relief. "I was going home," she answered meekly. The Hound peered down at her, and she smelled whiskey and smoke rolling off of him. Her stomach began to sink. _He's drunk._

Sandor grunted at her response, and one hand left her shoulder, raising a large bottle that was more than half empty to his lips and taking a swig. The night and the shadows hid most of his face, and Sansa was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He swallowed, then looked down at her up and down, swaying slightly. She felt like he was undressing her with his eyes, and she fought the urge to cover herself, even though she was more than properly dressed. "You're becoming quite a woman," he rasped, and his hand went to her hair, fingering the wavy locks. Sansa gulped, watching as he took another sip from the bottle. His hand went back to her shoulder. "You ever had whiskey, little bird?" She shook her head, wishing he would let her go home. "A bottle of good, strong, whiskey, all a man needs. Or a woman." He laughed harshly and turned, tossing the bottle somewhere and rubbing a hand over his face. "Drunk as dog, I am. Come, little bird, I'll see you home. Safe and sound." His hand remained on her shoulder, and he steered her back out onto the sidewalk.

Sansa's heart was pounding. She had never been alone with a drunken man before, and she had no idea what to say. She glanced up at him then looked away quickly when she saw him watching her. "Humph, can't bear to look me, can you?" he growled. "I know, I'm not one of those pretty boys you like so well, not with these scars." He suddenly jerked her around and bent his face to hers. A streetlight light the side with all the scars, and Sansa saw them closer than she had before, and they looked worse, somehow. "Take a good look, girl," he snarled, gripping her arms. "That's pretty for you, isn't it?" Sansa began to shake, frightened more by his anger than his scars. His eyes were filled with some kind of rage that she could not name. "Please," she whispered, feeling tears well up. He straightened, his face once again hidden by the shadows, and let his hands curl into fists at his side.

"Most people think it was an accident," he began in a low voice. "Something that happened back when I was a soldier. My father…he told everyone my bedding caught on fire." Sansa was frozen, gazing up at him. "There was a toy-maker that lived on the same street as we did, and some Christmas he made my brother, Gregor, and I tin soldiers to play with. I was six years old." Sansa was surprised. She didn't know he had a brother. "One day when my brother was out, I took his soldier and played with it. I don't know why, and it doesn't matter. Gregor came home and saw me playing with his toy, and without a word he picked me up under his arm, carried me to the fireplace, and pushed the side of my face down into the hot coals while I screamed. It took four men to drag him off me. Nine years later they made him the youngest captain in the army, and the Lannisters helped bestow him with honors."

Sansa stared at him, horrified, but now she was not frightened of him; she was frightened for him. She reached for his arm gently. "He is not worthy of any honors," she told him. He looked down at her for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed, making her jump. "No, little bird, he's not worthy of any honors. And one day, I'll kill him." They stood silently for a moment, before he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and they continued walking.

After a few minutes they reached Aunt Lysa's house, and Sandor stopped before the little white gate. "Thank you for walking me home," Sansa said softly, hoping her words had soothed whatever turmoil was coursing through his alcohol-induced mind. He kept a hand on her arm, lingering. "If you tell anyone what I told you…" "I won't, I promise," she said quickly. Sandor's jaw clenched as he studied her "Good." Sansa tilted her head up to him, and she saw the pain and anger swirling in his eyes. "You won't hurt me," she said. He met her gaze steadily, then slowly released his grip on her arm. "No, little bird I won't hurt you." She nodded to him, then turned to walk up to the front door. She let herself in and locked it, then flew up the stairs, ignoring her maid's inquiries, and went to her bedroom. Pulling back the curtains, she looked down into the street. Sandor was still standing there, gazing up at the house. She realized how rumpled his appearance was: shirt half-tucked in, coat wrinkled, and his dark hair was longer and shaggier than usual.

He swayed a bit, reached into his coat, and pulled out a little flask, which he took a sip from. His eyes fell on her window, and she drew back, pulling the curtains together. When she looked out again, he was gone.

* * *

Sansa continued her work at the hospital, but cut her time back so that she did not have to walk home at night. Not because of the Hound, but because of the other men she had seen by the saloon. And because her aunt complained that Sansa looked too tired and had dark circles under her eyes. "If you don't rest, you won't be able to help at the hospital at all," she declared, and advised Sansa to take a week or two off. She felt bad since more soldiers had arrived, but she agreed that if she was falling asleep or became ill herself, what good could she do?

It was true, what her aunt said. Sansa looked at herself in the mirror one morning and noticed how pale she had become. Her cheeks lacked their usual pink color, and her eyes had grown tired and lost their sparkle. Some rest would do her good.

So for the next few days she dressed simply and took a seat in the parlor, writing letters to home and gazing out the window. Even though the roads were not yet open to the mail service, it made her feel better to write everything down, for she missed her mother and siblings terribly. Aunt Lysa often left on errands and visits, and she was alone except for the servants. As much as she knew she needed rest, Sansa began to feel restless.

It was a Thursday afternoon, and the sun was spilling through the parlor window invitingly. Lysa had gone to visit some friends, and Sansa once more sat at the little wooden desk to write to Arya. Engrossed in her letter, she did not realize anyone had come to the house until the doorbell rang. _Who could that be?_ she wondered, and waited as Milly, the head maid, answered the door. There was some muffled speaking, then Milly came to the parlor. She didn't look happy. "It's Mr. Clegane to see you, Miss." Sansa dropped her pen and stood quickly. "Thank you, Milly, please see him in." The maid frowned but returned to the front door. A moment later Sandor's giant frame filled the doorway.

He was wearing a crisp white shirt and dark brown pants, his coat thrown over his arm. His appearance was much neater than before, and she smiled, relieved. "Good afternoon, Mr. Clegane." She gave a small curtsy, as was proper and expected of a lady greeting a guest. Sandor's mouth twitched into a small grin. "Miss Stark," he replied. He looked as if he was going to say something else, but he caught sight of Milly, who was standing next to him with disapproval written on her features. "Milly," Sansa said quickly, "Would you please bring us some cold lemonade?" "As you wish, Miss." Milly gave a little bob and left, glaring at Sandor as she did so.

He watched her leave, then turned back to Sansa. "Would you like to sit?" she asked, gesturing toward a small couch that was pushed against the wall under the window. "Only if you sit next to me," he answered with a smirk and walked to the couch, placing his coat on the arm. Sansa blushed and sat on the other side, clasping her hands in her lap. Her heart was racing wildly at seeing him again. _What is he going to say? Does he even remember?_ He had been so drunk…Taking a deep breath, she raised her eyes, knowing he'd want her to look him in the face. He was studying her closely, his brows slightly furrowed. "Are you well, little bird?" he asked. "Oh yes, quite. I'm only tired, so I took some time to be away from the hospital. It's nothing." Inwardly she cursed that he would come see her today when she was so pale. Sandor pressed his mouth together and nodded. "That's a good idea. It's not healthy to for little birds to be closed up in stuffy buildings all day." His eyes fell on her hands in her lap, and Sansa wondered if he was going to reach over, when Milly came back in, bearing a tray with a pitcher of lemonade, two glasses, and a little dish of cookies. She set them down on the tea-table and poured. "Thank you, Milly," Sansa said, hoping the maid would leave them alone. Instead, she nodded, gave Sandor a dirty look, and began dusting around the piano.

Embarrassed, Sansa glanced at Sandor. He was smirking at her, his eyes moving from the maid and back. "Really, Milly, dusting? And when your mistress isn't feeling well? You'll make her sneeze with all that dust flying around," he teased. Sansa almost choked on her lemonade. Milly whirled around, astonished, but her surprise was swiftly replaced by derision. "It's not proper for Miss Stark to be alone with a man like you," she snapped angrily. Sansa gasped. "Milly!" "Well, it's true, Miss! What will your aunt say if she knew he was here?" "She'd faint, most likely," Sandor quipped. Sansa felt the situation was quickly spiraling out of control. "Milly, I think you should go see if Cook needs any help in the kitchen." Milly clenched her jaw and flounced out of the room.

Sandor watched her, chuckling. "Think she'll set after me with the broom?" Sansa couldn't help but giggle. "She might." They both fell silent, and Sansa traced a finger around her glass, wishing she could break the tension somehow. _He should speak first_, she thought. Sandor shifted and leaned against the back of the couch, legs open, and his arm rested on the top. He was so big his knee brushed against Sansa's, and she felt goose bumps break out over her arms. "I'm surprised you let me in," he rasped in a low voice.

"Why wouldn't I?" she asked, puzzled. He shifted again, looking uncomfortable for the first time. "Don't pretend with me, little bird. I remember everything that happened the other night, and I'm sure you do too." Not exactly how Sansa had thought this conversation would begin, but she thought it would best to answer him. "I haven't told anyone," she said softly. He looked guarded. "I've never pretended to be a good man, because I'm not. I frightened you, didn't I?" She bit her lip, and nodded. "Only because you were so very intoxicated…and…your eyes were so angry," she whispered, hoping Milly wasn't eavesdropping. "Aye," Sandor agreed. "I am often angry, and more so when I'm drunk." He said it so calmly she wondered if he actually regretted any of his behavior to her. "You didn't hurt me though," she continued. Finally she saw a look of penitence flash in his eyes. "No, I didn't. And I won't hurt you, little bird."

The air seemed to clear, and Sansa felt herself relaxing a little more. She offered him a smile, and he returned it with a grin. "Now then, what are you doing with yourself if you're not at the hospital?" he asked. "Nothing very exciting, I'm afraid," she sighed. "Everyone is so busy, and even though I'm supposed to be resting I feel trapped. I haven't seen anyone for ages besides you." The words tumbled easily out of her mouth. "But I shouldn't complain, it's not nice." Sandor snorted. "Who cares about what's nice? Besides, you're not going to get better sitting around, cooped up like an old woman." He leaned forward again, so his knee brushed against hers. "I can take you out, if you like," he rasped. "You'd be out of the house and away from the clutches of Aunt Lysa. What do you say, little bird?" The idea was tantalizing and Sansa immediately pictured herself sitting next to the Hound in an open carriage, driving by the lake and enjoying the warm summer breezes. She could finally have some fun again, and forget about the war for a little while.

"Oh, I'd like that," she answered, smiling brightly at him, and hoping she didn't sound too overeager. Sandor smirked knowingly. "Of course you would. Don't fret, I'll put the pink back in your cheeks." He winked at her, and she giggled, feeling immensely rebellious, but she didn't care.

The Hound called on her almost every day after that, much to the dismay of Aunt Lysa and Milly. Sandor was always cordial but teasing to Lysa, and her aunt's face often turned various shades of red and purple when he crossed the threshold into her house. She tried to convince Sansa to tell him to refrain from visiting. "What will the neighbors think! What would your mother say?" she worried. Sansa would not be moved, however. "I shall see whom I please," she insisted, checking herself in the vanity mirror before heading downstairs. "If you will not admit him into the house, then we shall go out, and I will meet him elsewhere." Then Lysa would throw a fit, exclaiming how Sansa was supposed to be the good niece, not troublesome like Arya.

Sansa did feel guilty, causing her aunt stress, but it was so unnecessary! If only she would give Sandor a chance, she wouldn't need the smelling salts or worry about what people would say. So she would give her aunt a hug, and hurry down the stairs to the foyer, where Sandor would be waiting, a smirk on his face as he and Milly stared at each other, the latter with permanent glare.

Sandor often took her driving to a lake on the edge of Gettysburg. The weather had brought out other couples as well, and groups of young men and women, though the ratio was distinct, gathered in the soft grass and under the trees. They all stared in astonishment at Sansa, whom they had previously accepted among them, descend from a carriage on the arm of the Hound. Eager to avoid questions or remarks, Sansa hinted that she would rather walk, so they took a few turns around the lake, often stopping under a clump of willow trees farther away from the others. Sansa was so happy to be out that she was determined to enjoy herself, no matter how much people stared or gossiped.

The Hound was very unlike any of the young men who had ever courted Sansa. She discovered that he was almost thirty, older than other beaux girls her age normally had. He always acted as if nothing surprised him, and it seemed to amuse him to no end to see her get flustered when he teased her, to the point where she entered a speechless temper. Never had a man so simultaneously vexed and excited her, and Sansa hadn't a clue what it meant. For the most part though, his company was enjoyable, and Sansa found herself looking forward to his calls more and more.

Indeed, there was something exciting about him that she could not understand. It was thrilling to see his large body which made his entrance into a room like an abrupt physical impact, to see his scarred mouth twisted into a mockery of a smile as his dark eyes scanned everyone else until they landed on her, and remained. He still intimidated her in many ways, but the more she got to know him, the more daring she became, and the exciting feeling intensified.

Aunt Lysa's words stuck with Sansa more than she would like to admit, however. What would Mother say if she knew her bright, pretty, dutiful and courteous daughter was accepting calls and carriage rides with a man like the Hound? She would disapprove, Sansa was sure, and the thought made her uncomfortable. She had always striven to be a good girl, and she knew deep down that it was naughty to keep seeing Sandor, a man who, most likely, had no intentions of marriage….but what was she thinking! Sansa wasn't even sure what his intentions were, exactly. The next time she saw him, though, all doubt and guilt disappeared from her mind, replaced by curiosity and nervous delight at his attentions. And as Catelyn Stark was not there, and writing was not an option, she decided to continue seeing the Hound for the time being.

Even after she returned to her work at the hospital and he continued to run the blockade, whenever Sandor was in town he would make it a point to see her, bringing various presents and bits of news. Once he brought some exquisite bundles of lace for her and Aunt Lysa, who had become flustered and insisted she could accept no such thing from him. Later that evening, Sansa had passed by her bedroom door, only to see Lysa holding the lace up and admiring it.

He continued to make crude remarks about everyone and everything, but their conversations had certainly grown lengthier and more diverse. He asked her dozens of questions about herself and her family and Winterfell, and listened attentively. Whenever she made the same inquires, he promptly told her it was better she didn't know. Sansa decided he was right, remembering the story of how his brother had pushed his face into the fire. She couldn't imagine what kind of life he must have had, growing up not only with those scars but with a monster for a brother. It softened her heart towards him, though he sneered and said he wanted no sympathy from anyone.

A couple of weeks went by before he returned from another blockade run, and this time he brought her a little gold pin in the shape of a bird. "Oh, Sandor, It's beautiful!" Sansa gushed, and she moved to the mirror that hung on the parlor wall to pin it to her dress. "Thought you might like it," he rasped, tossing his coat on the couch. His white shirt was unbuttoned a bit, allowing his strong neck and the very top of his chest to show. Sansa glanced at him through the mirror, pretending to fuss with the pin, until he came forward and turned her around. "Let me." She stepped back, shocked. "Sandor! You can't!" It was most definitely not proper for a man to pin something on to a woman's dress; it was too close to the bosom. "Why? Is Aunt Lysa lurking about?" Sandor asked, amused by her reaction. "No…it's just…" she knew her face was red, and she turned away from him, hurriedly pinning the bird. "There." Smoothing her skirts, Sansa faced him again, only to find that he had stepped closer. "You're blushing," he noted with a smirk. "What have I done now? You look as embarrassed as if you thought I was going to kiss you." Her mouth fell open. "Don't be ridiculous," she said, "I had no such thought." Then, with more forwardness than she thought she could have ever had, she added, "It's not like you would, anyways." Sandor's eyebrow arched, and Sansa could have bitten her tongue off. Oh, she was wicked! And it was all his fault.

Sandor suddenly stepped closer, with a glint in his eye, and Sansa pulled back in alarm as his hands came to her shoulders. "Sandor! You mustn't!" Panicked, she glanced at the doorway, expecting Milly or Aunt Lysa to appear at any moment. Sandor chuckled, giving her an impertinent smile. "Don't worry, little bird, I'm not going to kiss you here. Though you need kissing, badly. That's what's wrong with you. You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how." Sansa wished the floor would open up and swallow her, as she stood there helpless as a child while he ate her with his dark eyes. After a moment, he released her and returned to the couch to sit, and she let out a breath she didn't she'd been holding. _I should feel relieved_, she thought. _But why do I feel more disappointed?_

The doorbell rang, and one of the maids answered. "It's a letter for you, Miss," she said, handing Sansa a thin envelope. "Thank you." Curious, Sansa turned it over. "I didn't know the mail had resumed." "Aye, a coach arrived not long after I got back, filled with mail from the past couple months," Sandor said. Sansa then saw it bore Winterfell's seal, and her mother's neat handwriting, and she tore it open hastily. It was dated more than a month ago.

_My sweet Sansa, it is with a heavy heart that your mother writes you. You must be brave, dear, for what I'm about to tell you. Word has reached us from the Union army. Robb has been killed during the Southern invasion. Oh, how it pains me…my son…my Robb…._

The letter trailed into ink smudges and tear stains.

_Your father is a prisoner of war, and Jon is nowhere to be found. We are trying to arrange for Ned's release, but it is of no avail. Arya….Arya has run away. _

_Oh, Sansa, how I need you by me at this hour! I know it is impossible for you to come yet, but it would give me strength to have you at my side. I pray that you will be able to return home soon, so that we may be together. Please write if you can._

_Love always, your Mother_

Sansa let the letter drop from her hands as her blood turned to ice. Vaguely she was aware of Sandor rushing to her side. "No…no…Robb…" a strangled sob escaped her, and she all but collapsed into tears, held up only by Sandor's arms. "Father…Jon...Arya…" Each name that escaped her lips left her wracking with more sobs. Her stomach churned and she felt that she might be sick. Pulling away from the Hound, she hurled up the stairs to her room, where she threw herself on the bed, the soft sheets soaking up her tears. Dimly she heard Aunt Lysa reproaching Sandor down below, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Robb, her brother, was dead. Her father might be dead too, and Jon. _Arya…_where had her sister gone?

A/N: Sad times :( Again, there were both books references. Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! And thank you to everyone who has been showing such amazing support for this story and the others, I can't do it without you!


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Ah, this is one of the chapters I've been most looking forward to writing. Also, especially for coming chapters, let me know if I should change the rating. Not for sexual stuff or anything, but for violence and such. Or add some warnings.

Enjoy!

Chapter 5

Sansa took the news of her family badly. She stayed in her room for days, hardly eating and refusing to see anyone. Like Aunt Lysa, she wore the customary black dress as a sign of mourning. Sansa had always hated black; it was too grave and dismal. But she didn't care about it now. What did it matter what she wore? Her brother was dead, and possibly her father and other siblings. And there was nothing she could do. Traveling to Winterfell was out of the question.

Some days she sat at her window, staring miserably outside as the world continued to move on around her. Others she cried and wailed until Aunt Lysa threatened to call for a doctor to give her something to sleep, then she would plead and stuff her emotions away. She didn't want to sleep. Sleep only brought nightmares, creating images of her family in pain and death.

The Hound came to the house once or twice, asking to see her, but he was only a reminder of the day she received the terrible news, and Sansa had no desire to let him see her in such a state, so Aunt Lysa received him with indifference, and told him that "Miss Sansa does not wish to see anyone today." He would leave, and she would watch from her window as his large frame paused on the sidewalk, looking up at her, his face twisted into a sort of longing and frustration, before he would turn and continue down the street. Sansa knew it was wrong to snub him, but she just couldn't bring herself to have company, even his. She didn't want to be comforted and pitied; she wanted to be alone in her misery.

At last she decided she had had enough of being cooped up in her room, and she returned to the hospital, much to the shock of her aunt and the doctors, and threw herself into the work. "It's no good to just sit at home," she argued the first day when they tried to send her away. "I can mourn here just fine, and besides, you need help." It was true, after all. More soldiers had arrived to replace the ones that were healing and staying at the hotels, and Sansa flew back and forth all day, rolling bandages and attending wounds. It became so hot that she left off the black dress and adorned a plan cream and brown old one. In the evenings she brought bandages and blankets home, and she and Milly washed and pressed and ironed them, to be brought back in the morning. Cloth was too precious to be thrown away.

Working helped keep her mind off her family, and Sansa moved feverishly, unwilling to have much rest, because that's when she knew her grief would return, and everything would be too unbearable. She didn't see the Hound anymore, and she missed his company. _Perhaps I should write to him_, she thought one day as she sat by a soldier's bed and wiped his sweating brow. He should know that she wasn't ignoring him on purpose, really. Or that he had done anything to upset her. But she would come home at night, hot and tired and aching, and she would be too exhausted to do anything but bathe and fall onto her bed. _Tomorrow,_ she would think as sleep claimed her, _tomorrow I'll write to him._

The war continued, and there was word that the Union army had gathered somewhere north of Gettysburg. Only rumors about the Confederates filled the air, and Sansa disregarded them all. Until one day at the hospital, a soldier ran in with the news. "The Union and the Confederates are gathering at Gettysburg! There's going to be a battle any day now!" The hospital fell into a frenzy: nurses cried out, clutching each other, wounded soldiers yelled and tried to leap up from their cots and blankets. Sansa stood still, clutching a basin of water and a towel. "The Confederates here?" she whispered. Only Doctor Phelps kept his head. "Don't stand there gaping like fishes!" he barked out. "Get to work! There are men that can still be saved." He saw Sansa and grabbed her by the elbow. "You, come with me. I need assistance in the operating room." Sansa stiffened. She had avoided becoming involved with that area of the hospital. Fevers, and bandaging wounds, that she could handle. Operations…her heart sunk. "Come!" another nurse took her by the arm, and they followed Doctor Phelps across the room.

The operation room was really just a sectioned off area of the hospital ground floor, separated by a curtain. A man was lying on a table, groaning, and his leg was bleeding through his pants, A horrid smell was coming from it. Dr. Phelps rolled up the pants leg, took one look and nodded. "As I thought. Gangrene. It's got to go." "No!" the man begged, panting and sweating profusely. "No! Not my leg! Please…" "Son, it's either your leg or your life," the doctor told him. Another nurse took a cutting saw and handed it to him. The man tried to get up, but others held him down. "No! Please! Please!" "Doctor, give him something," one of the nurses pleaded. "We're out of morphine," Phelps said grimly. "Give him a stick to bite." Sansa was gripping the curtains, staring in frozen horror, as the saw began to cut into the man's leg, and he screamed. Then something in her snapped.

She turned and ran, pulling off her apron and sobbing. A nurse grabbed at her. "Sansa! Dr. Phelps needs you- "I don't care!" she cried. "I won't stay here another minute!" The man's screams echoed through the hospital, and she pulled away, running as fast as she could to the front doors.

A wave of hot air assaulted her as she stepped outside, and stopped short at the scene before her. People and carriages and horses filled the streets, shouting frantically and pushing, all of them trying to get somewhere. The numerous carriages kicked up dust, and Sansa coughed, shielding her eyes as she tried to figure out what was happening. A man pushed past her and she clutched at his sleeve. "Please, where is everyone going?" The man looked at her like she had grown an extra head. "Why, haven't you heard? There's going to be a battle here any day! Everyone is trying to leave town. No one wants be here in case the Union falls." He wrenched away from her and was lost to the crowd.

Sansa wasn't sure what to do. "Everyone is leaving?" It made sense…her heart was gripped with anxiety, and she began to push through, eager to get back to Aunt Lysa's house. If everyone was getting out of town, you could be sure Aunt Lysa would be among them. Sansa was jostled roughly, forwards, side to side, and even backwards sometimes. The dust stung her eyes, yet she couldn't stop for fear of being swept away. The distinguished Gettysburg civilians had turned into a stampede of panic, and Sansa realized the more often than not she was fighting against the tide. She barely missed being run over several times, and was almost knocked down by a group of men.

It took her much longer to reach home than usual, even with the shortcuts. Some streets she had to avoid because they were completely congested, but finally she managed to get to her street. In front of Aunt Lysa's house was a carriage, already stocked high with boxes and bags, and she saw Milly and a couple of the other servants around it. Footsore, she hurried to up to them. "Oh, Miss Sansa!" Milly exclaimed, and immediately began ringing her hands. Sansa leaned against the fence to catch her breath. "Milly, what is it?" The servant only stood there, biting her lip and muttering like a fool. Then Aunt Lysa herself appeared, dressed with her bonnet resting haphazardly on her head and putting her gloves on. "Oh, Sansa, there you are! Isn't it absurd! A battle, here, of all places! Mercy on us!" Her aunt approached the carriage. "I only just found out," Sansa panted. "Wait and I'll grab my things." Aunt Lysa turned to her quickly. "Oh no, dear, I'm sorry, but the carriage is full, and I have to have my maids with me. Mercy! I would take you with me, but there's too much!" Sansa froze, staring at her in disbelief. "You mean you're leaving me?" she cried. Aunt Lysa looked nervous and frazzled as one of the male servants opened the carriage door. "I'm sorry, my dear, but there's nothing to help it. Now if you want to leave, run down to Mrs. Merriweather's, they'll have room, I'm sure. Now I must leave! The Confederates! Here, in Gettysburg! Mercy!" Sansa had no strength left to protest as her aunt and the servants bundled into the carriage. "Goodbye, Sansa! Be a good girl!" Her aunt called, and they were gone in a cloud of dust.

Her head pounding, Sansa gripped the fence once more to steady herself. "Coward," she whispered. After a moment she managed to turn and walk down the street to the Merriweather's house, but they had already left too, according to the servants who had stayed behind. She went next door, and those people were gone too. Miserably, she wandered all the back up the street. She had to leave! She had to get home! But there was no one else to go to, no one else would take her…except maybe…just maybe…

Filled with renewed purpose, Sansa rushed down away, back into the raging swarm of people, a single destination in mind. He had to be there, he just had to be.

The late afternoon had been setting when Sansa left the hospital, and now it was approaching dusk when she finally emerged out of the fray and stood before the saloon. To her surprise, the inside was filled with laughter and talking. Were these people mad? Who could think about cards at a time like this? She mustered her courage and stepped inside past the swinging doors. The large room was filled with smoke and the smell of alcohol. The tables were filled with men playing cards and drinking, and one man pounded away lustily on a piano in the corner. A few women meandered around the tables, pausing to speak to a man or watch a game. They were dressed in corsets and feathers and rouge, and Sansa averted her eyes from them. She scanned the big room, but did not see him anywhere. Anxious, she slowly crept by the wall, trying to remain invisible, searching, searching.

A hand reached out and grabbed her wrist. "And who might you be?" a man with crooked teeth asked her, a bottle in his other hand. "I'm…I'm looking for someone," Sansa stammered. "Please let go." He leered at her, much to the encouragement of the other men at his table. "Could be I'm who you're looking for," he laughed, jerking her closer. He smelled like vomit, and Sansa cowered away from him. "I said, let me go!" She pulled her wrist away and tried to run, but the main grabbed her around the waist. "C'mon, honey, don't play hard to get now." His face was close to hers, and he started dragging her away from the wall. "No! Let me go!" The laughter around her suddenly stopped, and she looked up to see the Hound standing in front of them. His face was twisted in fury, his grey eyes turned to black and dangerous. He towered over the man who was still gripping Sansa by the waist. "You heard the lady. Let her go. I'm only going to tell you once," he growled. The man gaped incredulously at him, before giving a snort. He was obviously too intoxicated to realize his position. "I saw her first," he slurred. "Go find your own girl, Hound." He tugged at Sansa again, and suddenly a crack filled the room. The man released her and stumbled back to one of the tables, yelling and grasping at his chest, where blood had begun to seep through his shirt. Stunned, Sansa saw that the Hound was holding a pistol, a small wisp of smoke trailing from the barrel. She hadn't even seen him pull it out.

Sandor calmly put his pistol back into a holster he wore around his waist, and placed a heavy hand on Sansa's shoulder. "Anyone else see my girl first?" he asked, his voice rough and hard. No one answered him. The man slumped to the floor, moaning, and a couple of his friends wandered over to help him. Sandor moved his hand to her back and steered her out the front doors. Behind her, she could hear the saloon continue in cards and talking, as if nothing happened.

Sansa was shaking as Sandor led her to the other side of a building. "Little bird, what were you thinking, going in there?" He paused and took in her appearance, and his face softened slightly. "Why are you here? I thought you would have flown away from town already with Aunt Lysa." Sansa finally found her voice. "I…Aunt Lysa left...I came home and she left…" Sandor looked disgusted. "What? Bothersome old hen…" Sansa sniffed, and took a deep breath. It was now or never. "Sandor…would you…could you…please…I need you to take me home. To Winterfell." He studied her, brows furrowed. "That's a suicide mission, little bird," he said. "That way will be crawling with Confederates, heading for Gettysburg. Besides, don't you want to see the battle? It could be historic." He was grinning now, and Sansa glared at him. All the hurt, the frustration, the pain from the loss of her family, and the brutality she had witnessed in the hospital finally gathered and burst forth. "No. I don't care about seeing any stupid battle!" she cried. "I just…I just want to go home! I don't care how dangerous it is! I want to go home! I want my mother!" She began crying in earnest now, feeling half-ashamed that she should let him see her so.

Sandor waited until she had calmed down a bit and was wiping her face on her sleeve before he pulled out a wrinkled handkerchief and gave it to her. Then he placed his large, warm hands on her shoulders and pulled her closer, staring into her watery blue eyes. "If I take you to Winterfell," he began slowly, and Sansa's heart jumped, "What's in it for me?" Her mouth dropped open. "W-what?" "It's a perfectly simple, honest question, little bird," he said, tucking a hair behind her ear. "I've told you before I don't do anything without getting something in return. So, what would I get out of this?" Sansa was speechless. She had not expected to have to offer him anything. What could he possibly want? "I-I would be forever grateful, and indebted to you," she began. He twisted his mouth. "Hmmm, yes, I would take you home, you and your family would repeat all the pretty words they should say, and send me on my way, and you would get on with your life. No, that wouldn't do at all." Sansa clueless. "Do you want money?" she asked. He shrugged. "I could, but I'm pretty set with money."

He pulled her a little closer, and Sansa could smell whiskey on him, though it wasn't nearly as potent as that one night. His eyes fell to her mouth for a moment. "I'll take you to Winterfell," he said, "If you promise to marry me."

Down the street, people continued to shove past one another, but Sansa no longer heard their voices and the sounds of horses and carriages. She no longer heard the raucous laughter floating from the saloon behind them. Time had stopped, and all she could do was stare up at the Hound, thunderstruck, as his words sunk into her mind.

"M-marry you?" she sputtered, not sure she had heard him correctly. Sandor gave a slight huff of impatience. "Yes, girl."

"B-but…I didn't think…you were a marrying man." The words sounded cruel as they left her mouth, but Sansa was too shocked to take them back. His mouth twitched. "I'm not. But…" he studied her features, and his grey eyes became serious. "I want you. More than anything or anyone I've ever wanted in my whole life. And it looks like the only way I'll have you is to marry you." Sansa's mouth had gone dry from gaping at him, and she quickly closed it swallowed, feeling dizzy. "My family…my parents…they won't allow it…" he smirked again. "I think they will, once they've seen I've brought their precious little girl home." Sansa clenched her teeth, and felt anger surge through her. "You're a black-hearted scoundrel," she hissed. "If you cared so much about me, you would take me home without expecting such a _reward_. A gentleman…" "If I'm going to risk both our necks to bring you home, then I'm going to be sure you'll be mine. And I thought you made it clear the first time we met that I wasn't a gentleman," he interrupted, a frown spreading over his features. "I'm not a good man. I've done a lot of bad things in my life. That man I killed back there is just one more to the number." He ran his thumbs over her shoulders, and Sansa shivered from the touch. She wasn't afraid of him, but she was appalled by his attempt to blackmail her into marriage in return for taking her home. "However…" his voice grew softer, as much as it could. "I would be good to you. If you were to be my wife, I would take care of you. You would want for nothing. No one would ever try to hurt you again, or I'd kill them." Sandor took a breath. "You'll never find someone more loyal than I would be. I would never seek out the company of another woman like so many of these _gentlemen_ do."

He was telling the truth, Sansa knew as her blue eyes met his stormy ones. _He wants me…_But could she really agree to marry this man? What would her family say? He wasn't as bad as some people, she knew that by now. He was rough and ungallant, often angry, but he had obvious interest in her…enough to kill for her. Sansa's heart fluttered oddly at the thought. She was completely thrown off by his demand, but she discovered that the idea wasn't unappealing. She had been attracted to him for months, perhaps longer, and the strange exciting feeling coursed through her as she conjured images of them as a married couple. He was a giant man, strong enough to protect her, and fierce. He was certainly not the husband she had always pictured for herself, but…

"Do you want to go home?" Sandor asked her, and Sansa's attention snapped back to him. She realized she hadn't said anything for several long moments. "Yes," she whispered, and her decision was made. She lifted her head again, trying to steady her voice. "If I am to marry you, all I ask for two things…aside from bringing me home." Sandor blinked, but he nodded encouragingly. "After we get home, and…the time is right…you will propose to me properly." Sandor chuckled. "Always the lady. Very well. And the other?" Sansa took a deep breath. "You must promise to try not to drink so much." He flinched slightly at that one, and Sansa could tell by the guilty look that crossed his face that he was remembering that night. "Aye, little bird, I agree." Relieved, she offered him a small smile. "Then, yes, Sandor, I will marry you."

He let out a breath, and smile spread over his face; not a smirk like she was used to, but a genuine smile. "Good. It's settled then. Now listen, run back to your aunt's house. Pack a small bundle, only what you absolutely need. If the Union wins and the house still stands, I'm sure you can send for the rest of your things later. I will meet you in front of the house in ten minutes." Sansa nodded, gulping. "Go now, little bird," he said, giving her a gentle push, and she turned and flew down the sidewalk. _Home. I'm going home._

A/N: I had about six different ways their conversation could have gone, and this was the one I went with. Not entirely sure I'm happy with it, so there might be some editing in the future, but it's here to stay for now. Isn't Sandor a devil? ;)


	6. Chapter 6

Sansa hurried to Aunt Lysa's quiet, dark house. The servants she had not taken with her had scattered, and it seemed strange not be greeted at the front door. She flew up the stairs and threw open her bedroom door. After quickly lighting the lamp by her bed, she went to her closet and looked over her dresses nervously. There were so many pretty ones that she did not want to leave behind, but Sansa knew this wasn't practical to worry about such things. She reached in and pulled out a plain blue dress that she had worn sometimes to the hospital. It would be easier to move around in since the skirt wasn't very full. Rolling it up, she stuffed it in an empty pillowcase, then moved to her desk.

All her money, letters, and a few items of jewelry went into the pillowcase as well, along with another pair of underthings and her hairbrush. Gazing about the room, Sansa bit her lip and decided that would have to do. She prayed that Aunt Lysa's house would remain intact when the battle was over.

Finished, she ran downstairs and into the kitchen. Luckily the servants had left some food behind, so she stuffed some apples and biscuits into the pillowcase. In the cupboard she found a little canteen and filled it with water. A knock on the door made her jump, and she hesitantly opened it. Sandor stood on the step, filling the doorway. "All set, little bird?" he asked. She nodded. "Good." He took her bundle from her and headed down to the front gate. Sansa hurriedly shut and locked the door, though she realized that might not be worth it. Turning, she saw Sandor waiting for her next to his gigantic black horse, and she froze.

"Come, little bird, he won't hurt you," Sandor called, extending his hand. Sansa walked up cautiously. "Only one horse?" she asked. Sandor chuckled. "Yes. It's easier and faster to travel this way. Up you go." She gave a yelp as he suddenly picked her up by her waist and settled her astride Stranger's saddle. Sansa had never ridden a horse this way, and she tugged at her skirts, trying to arrange them so that they wouldn't be caught in the stirrups. Sandor mounted behind her, and she gulped as she felt his warm chest against her back, and his arms went around either side of her to gather the reins. "Ready?" he asked. "Yes."

Sandor led Stranger down several streets, attempting to avoid more of the crowds. So many people had left already, but Sansa could see several dark groups lurking around corners and in front of stores. When they reached the end of the Main, she gasped in horror as they came across the general store, its roof in flames. A group of men stood in front, arguing over things that had been thrown out into the street. Sandor cursed behind her. "What are they doing?" she asked. "Looters," he answered, steering Stranger away. "People can turn on each other pretty quickly in situations like this. They panic like rats on a sinking ship." She shivered and unconsciously leaned against his chest, as if Sandor's large frame could hide her completely.

One of the men looked over and saw them. "Hey, a horse!" he called. The others dropped what they were doing and started running towards them. Sandor pulled out his pistol and fired once at the ground in front of them, and they paused. "Come a step closer and the next bullets go through your heads," he barked. The men glanced at each other uncertainly. Stranger snorted and stomped one of his hooves, earning a dark chuckle from Sandor. "Or maybe I'll let my horse bash your brains in. Take your pick." Sansa didn't realize she was shaking until the men finally backed away, clearing the road for them. Sandor urged Stranger into a fast canter, and soon she could see the edge of town.

The Union had begun arriving and setting up lines. Sandor muttered something under his breath and paused, looking about. "What is it?" Sansa asked him. "The Confederate army must be closer if they are already here," Sandor answered. "It'll be tough getting through their lines; stopping us to ask questions and that sort of thing. We'll have to find another way out." He pulled Stranger to the left and they blended into the shadows down another street. Sansa had never even seen some of the ways Sandor led them down, but finally they entered a small clump of trees somewhere on the outskirts. Sandor slowed Stranger to a walk, and the horse stepped carefully over dry twigs and rocks. The moon had risen opposite the setting sun, half-covered by clouds and casting an eerie light through the branches over them. Sansa understood silence was imperative, and she felt that even her breathing was loud.

Finally they broke through the trees onto a rough road, and Gettysburg was behind them at last. A surge of hope filled her. They still had a long way to go, but they were a little closer to Winterfell every moment. Soon she would be home with her mother and brothers, and she could forget the nightmare that had followed her like a black shroud. Or at least be able to bear it more bravely, since she would have her remaining family with her. Perhaps they had even managed to get her father back already.

Her thoughts were jerked away as Sandor suddenly set Stranger into a gallop, and she clutched at the saddle. For a long time they set a hard pace, neither of them saying anything. Unused to riding astride, Sansa's bottom and thighs quickly became sore, but she didn't dare complain. Sandor's arms around her kept her secured in the saddle and from moving around too much, so that helped. She was tired as well, having been up late the night before and working in the hospital earlier that day, and the jolting of the horse kept her from relaxing, though Stranger's gait was smoother than most horses she had ridden.

The sun was just barely peeking over the hills, an orange after-glow staining the end of the sky, when Sandor finally slowed Stranger to a walk and then stopped him. "Alright, little bird?" he rasped in her ear. She shifted uncomfortably, but not from his closeness. "Yes. Why are we stopping?" "Letting the horse rest for a while. Stranger is strong, but he's used to carrying only myself. Not that you weigh much, little bird." He swung off the saddle and led Stranger over to a dilapidated fence near a small clump of trees and tied his reigns. Sansa watched him shyly, suddenly realizing that she was completely alone with him. There was no one around for miles by the looks of it. _He won't hurt me,_ she thought in an attempt to reassure herself, _he promised. _Still, the lessons in propriety that had been drilled into her since childhood began to crowd the forefront of her mind.

Sandor gazed around them for a few moments, then returned to her side and reached to lift her out of the saddle. Sansa clutched at his arms as he lifted her as easily as he would a doll, and set her on her feet. Feeling a little wobbly, she held onto him for a minute. "Thank you." She expected him to let her go, and she began to step away, but he held on to her arms and pulled her closer. "What are you doing?" She wasn't sure why she was whispering, there was no one around. Sandor reached up and ran his hand through her hair, a peculiar look covering his face as the shadows mixed with his features. "I'm going to take that kiss now," he rasped. Sansa gaped at him, completely derailed. "How can you be thinking about kissing at a time like this?" she exclaimed. He gave her that amused, mocking smirk she both loved and hated so much. "What better time is there? We're racing right in the direction of the Confederate army like a couple of fools. It's a bloody miracle we haven't been caught yet. And I'll be damned if I continue on with this hair-brained scheme without getting a kiss from my bride-to-be."

His arms went around her waist and shoulders, so that she could feel the hard muscles of his chest pressing against her breast. A warm rush of bewilderment, fright, and anticipation crashed over her, and Sansa felt as limp and helpless as a newborn, and his arms were pleasant to lean upon as all the danger of their circumstance seemed puny in comparison to this moment.

Then Sandor's mouth descended on her own, and all thought and any protestations vanished from her mind. He kissed her heatedly, his lips burning against hers and they encouraged her mouth to move along with his own in a strange, sensuous movement. The scarred part of his mouth was surprisingly smooth and not rough as she had expected. He gave her bottom lip a little nip with his teeth, and she gasped slightly, allowing his tongue to enter her mouth. He tasted of whiskey and mint, and Sansa heard a low growl rumble in his throat when she timidly touched his tongue with her own.

He broke the kiss and bent her body back, so that her neck was open to him, and he leisurely trailed kisses up and down her throat. Sansa's eyes had fluttered open at this, but they shut again as pulsing flashes of cold and hot traveled through her skin, and her hands shook as they came to wind around his strong neck for balance.

Gradually he brought his face back to hers, and planted one more kiss, softer and slower this time, but he kept her body pulled against his, touching her hair. "There. You have no idea how much I've wanted to do that. Now I can face possible death as a happy man," he rasped teasingly, and tilted her chin up. Sansa's mind was completely blank, and all she could utter was a soft, "Oh…" Sandor's eyes darkened considerably, and he chuckled. "Watch how you pout your lips at me, little bird, or I'll be tempted to kiss you again." Sansa blushed then, and realized her mouth had fallen open in the shape of an O. She snapped it shut and swallowed, wishing she had something more elegant to say. She wondered if he could hear or feel how rapidly her heart was beating.

He stepped away, and reached for the saddle bags. "Might as well eat and rest ourselves. We have a long night ahead of us." Shaking herself out of her stupor, she followed him to one of the trees and they sat down. Sandor looked into her bundle and pulled out some of the food she had packed. "Well done, little bird." He handed it to her, and she felt a small trickle of pride. _I'm not completely helpless. _From his own bag he handed her a slice of cheese, and they ate silently, drinking water from the canteens. Sansa was still trying wrap her head around what had happened earlier. So that was a kiss! She had heard other girls whispering about the kisses they secretly shared with their beaux, and Sansa decided that hers and Sandor's had been much more thrilling than what she had previously imagined. She had thought her first kiss would be chaste and soft, but Sandor's had been hot and needy, like he wanted to devour her. Her blush returned, and she snuck a peek at Sandor, who was sitting against the tree with his legs spread out lazily. She jumped when his gaze met hers.

"What are you thinking?" he asked quietly. Sansa started to chew her lip, but stopped when she noticed his eyes drop to her mouth. It was so utterly strange, to be discussing something as intimate as a kiss. But Sandor was to be her husband, after all. Maybe it was alright to talk to him about it. "I've never kissed anyone before," she admitted shyly, peeking at him again. He grinned, and a mischievous glint returned to his eyes. "Haven't you? Well then, it's a pleasure to introduce you to the act, Miss Stark. You'll inform me if you should desire any additional assistance in that area, won't you?" Sansa frowned at him, feeling embarrassed. "I shall do no such thing," she declared. "How dare you laugh at me. That's the last time I bring up the subject." She crossed her arms and turned away, knowing she was acting childish, but she didn't care. Sandor only chuckled, and suddenly he had moved behind her, his hands going to her shoulders. "There, there, little bird, don't ruffle your feathers at me." Sansa tried to ignore the pleasant warmth that radiated from his closeness. "I would have been surprised if you had kissed someone before. You're not the kind of girl that gives away kisses freely." Sansa was unsure if that was a compliment or a slight. She sighed and relented. "You're so very exasperating." He gave a harsh, barking laugh. "That I am," he answered. "It makes things more interesting though. You wouldn't like me half so much, if at all, if I was all meek and compliant like those boys you used to surround yourself with." Sansa gave up arguing with him, but she had to admit she did prefer his rough, callous, brash behavior. And the fact that her preferences had changed so drastically frightened her a little.

Sandor stood up. "We should leave now. Best to travel in the dark." He helped Sansa up, and gathered the saddlebags. A cool breeze drifted around them, bringing the distant smell of rain. Sansa shivered. Even though it was summer and had been rather hot earlier, the night air was much cooler, and her sleeves were very thin. Sandor saw her rubbing her arms when he truend to lift her into the saddle. "Cold?" She nodded. "A bit." He immediately shrugged out of his coat and placed it around her shoulders. Sansa put her arms in the sleeves. They were much too long, but she rolled them up so her hands were freer. It smelled like him, dusky, smoky, with a hint of whiskey and something else that could only be described as masculine. Once she was ready Sandor lifted her into the saddle and swung up behind her, and they set off once more.

They didn't gallop like earlier, and Sansa found herself growing increasingly weary and her eyelids felt full of sand as she struggled to keep them open. When her head began nodding Sandor spoke. "Try to get some rest, little bird. I'll wake you if need be." He shifted behind her, and Sansa leaned against his chest, the back of her head resting against his shoulder. His arms held her more securely to keep her from falling to either side. His warmth and the coziness of his coat helped assuage her fears, and in spite of the danger he was constantly complaining about, she felt perfectly safe.

But as soon as she closed her eyes, Sansa's mind crowded with images from the hospital. Again she saw the young man screaming as his leg was being sawed off, and her eyes immediately opened again with a choked sound in her throat. "Something wrong?' Sandor asked her. "I keep thinking about the hospital…there was a young man…his leg was infected, and the doctor started to cut it off, and I couldn't turn away at first…" a small whimper escaped her lips as she wished she could forever erase that image from her mind. If only she could shut out the sound of his screams. Sandor was quiet behind her. "Aye, that's hard to see." He leaned down so his face brushed against her hair, and Sansa didn't mind. "Think about Winterfell, then," he suggested, his voice rough as stone, yet somehow soothing. "Think about your mother. Think about all the pretty dresses I'm going to buy you when we're married, along with all the lemon cakes you could possibly want, served on a silver platter." Sansa couldn't help but give a nervous giggle. "Are you trying to butter me up?" "Perhaps," he chuckled. "Is it working?" She smiled, and felt him nuzzle her temple with his nose. She wondered briefly if she smelled bad; she hadn't had time to wash up before they left Gettysburg. Sandor didn't seem to think so as he continued to nuzzle her and Sansa heard him inhale near her ear. "You always smell so sweet, little bird," he murmured, and chuckled when she blushed. He straightened back, sitting so that her head continued resting against him, and after a few moments Sansa was swayed into sleep.

A/N: Hooray for kisses! ^o^ Kind of a shorter chapter, but they will get longer again.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Alright, back by popular demand is a Sandor POV. This chapter will be split between him and Sansa. Sandor's POV will mostly involve reflection on past events leading up to where they are now, and if any of his thoughts are a bit…disturbing? well….that's Sandor for you. He's not a good person, even where Sansa is concerned. At least right now.

Chapter 7-part 1

Never, not once, had Sandor ever thought he would be put in this kind of position. Running the blockade had been a dangerous undertaking every time, but it was the kind of danger you got a high from; it caused your blood to pump with adrenaline, it was exciting, and a generous reward waited on the other side. Sandor had been in his line of work long enough to be the best at what he did, which was why, when he'd offered his services to the Union, they had readily accepted, willing to turn a blind eye to his past crimes and dealings with the Lannisters.

Now here he was, one of the most dangerous men in the United States, going on a fool's mission to return the little bird to her nest. Sandor decided he really couldn't complain, though. If they survived, the reward for fulfilling his part of the bargain was going to be very nice indeed. Marriage had never really crossed his mind before. No woman would accept him without seeing a fistful of dollars first, and Sandor had accepted long ago that that was all he had going for him. Although he knew his body was attractive enough, hardened and tough from years of work and labor, the scars on his face deterred most women from even glancing his way. He was an ugly bastard, there was no denying it. Even the women he visited in the saloons, for all their purring and fondling, would wince at his scars and try to stay on his good side. Plus, his reputation wasn't exactly a gold star either. There was hardly a town anywhere that hadn't at least heard of the Clegane brothers, and Sandor was just as feared for his brutality as Gregor, though he usually didn't leave as many bodies in his wake. Sandor showed up, did his job, and moved on. Gregor took his time…

Sandor had gradually worked less and less with the Lannisters, and began to accept other jobs elsewhere, mostly ones that took him out west. It was easier to blend in there, away from proper society and civilization. The rough crudeness of the deserts and little towns were much more suited to his taste, and Sandor found work easily enough as a bounty hunter and smuggler. After a couple years though, he had been asked by Tywin Lannister himself for a special job, and Sandor had returned to the North, where the Lannister family was currently residing at Twelve Oaks. And there he had met Sansa.

All the years of self-loathing and bitterness towards his brother for ruining his face had seemed to blur when he saw her. Sandor wanted her, badly, and it was enough to push him to test the waters with her. Sandor had never had trouble saying what he thought; he preferred honesty and bluntness over lies and sugar-coated words, even if the truth was hard to swallow. The girl's polite chirping frustrated him, but he accepted the challenge of pushing her buttons, finding the chinks in her armor. It was amusing and delightful to see her get fired up: her blue eyes sparked and her cheeks would turn a delicious shade of pink. After the party he had never expected to her again, but after running into her once more near Winterfell, where she had shown curiosity about him, Sandor decided that if he had the chance to see her again he would pursue her. Discovering her presence in Gettysburg had even more firmly sealed that resolution.

Sansa had seemed surprised at first by his scars, maybe even frightened a little, which was nothing new to him, but she surprised him in turn by being able to look him in the eye when they spoke, to stick her chin out resolutely to show him that he couldn't scare her. Sandor was unused to anyone being able to look at him without at least a particle of distaste or disgust, but the little bird's eyes showed none of those things. In fact, as much as she blushed and stammered, she seemed to be flattered by his words and spontaneous reappearances into her life, and Sandor eagerly drank in her smiles like the dog that he was. He wasn't surprised, however, by Sansa's aunt's aversion to him, and her attempts to keep her niece from associating with him. Despite his "heroic contribution" to the cause, Sandor's reputation had followed him to Gettysburg, and he was simultaneously shunned and glorified. None of it mattered to him, but he would not let it deter his advances on the little bird.

Sandor knew she probably had dozens of handsome suitors already, each jumping at the bit to have a dance with her, and it grated his nerves as he watched them from across the room, eyeing her and showering her with eloquent little compliments. It was enough to make him want to strangle someone. His presence at her side, thankfully, seemed to dampen their hopes, and Sandor watched smugly as the young men sought other partners after noticing who Sansa was standing with. Except for that Percy Anderson fellow. The over-stuffed, over-confident little ass had sidled right up and flaunted himself to Sansa. Sandor had itched to wrap his hands around the boy's neck and throttle him, but Sansa's reaction had proved to be much more satisfying. He had truly been taken off-guard when she put off Percy's invitation, and then she had taken a hold of his arm and smiled so sweetly up at him, batting her eyes, and it was all he could do to keep from howling. Sandor very rarely allowed his ego to be stroked, but in that short time, and later after he out-bid Percy, he had indulged in silent gloating and self-congratulation.

Once she volunteered at the hospital, it was harder to see her, along with running the blockade. The night she had stumbled upon him near the saloon, drunk out of his mind, had been the first time they had talked since the fundraiser. Sandor had been so sure later that he had blown it any possible chance he might have had with her. The girl couldn't possibly desire to see him again after his behavior and the horrible story he'd told her. There were parts that were a bit blurry, but Sandor gathered enough to know his actions had not painted him in the best light. He was already unfit as a suitor for her, but it hadn't mattered what anyone else thought as long as Sansa had been willing enough.

He didn't know what could have possessed him to tell her the secret of his scars. The girl awakened a longing in him, and the moment she had placed her hand on his arm to comfort him, Sandor, even in his drunken state, knew he was gone. Everything else faded and became background noise, and Sansa became the sole object of his desires. And he knew he wouldn't stop until he possessed her.

Certain she would slam the door in his face, Sandor had dared to visit her shortly after that night, and the girl surprised him once again by inviting him in, and she even giggled and smiled at his remarks. What she saw in him Sandor had no clue, but he would be buggering idiot to refuse her company. Their little outings developed into Sansa's own personal rebellion towards propriety and what had been crammed down her throat since she was a child, and it gave Sandor no end of pleasure to know that he was the one tainting her and encouraging her to cast a blind eye to what was expected of her as a lady. It wasn't considered proper for her to accept his kind of flirtations, or for her to return them, yet that was exactly what she did. Her innocence and sweetness continued to draw him in, and he liked nothing more than to say something scandalous and watch her eyes grow wide and her mouth form that perfect little 'o', before she blushed and giggled behind her hand or reprimanded him. Sandor decided that she was somehow fascinated by him, for he was surely unlike anyone else that she had ever known. He was more than happy to fuel her curiosity with his frequent visits, and he watched as she became more and more comfortable being in his presence, showing obvious interest in what he had to say. It was more intoxicating than the whiskey he loved so much.

When Sansa received the news about her family, it had nearly driven him mad when she refused even his company. He knew she was grieving, but he thought she would have wanted comforting. Apparently none from an ugly dog. After being turned away the third time he came to see her, Sandor gave up, and chose to bide his time. The girl couldn't stay shut up in that house forever. He didn't know that she returned to her work at the hospital until the day the news came about the battle looming on the horizon for Gettysburg, and he had thought she and her aunt would have left town. Annoyed, frustrated, and thirsting for the burning taste of liquor, Sandor had intended to hole up in the saloon, drinking and gambling and sulking. Then the little bird had stumbled in, hair in disarray and gazing about with frightened eyes.

To be honest, he had figured she would want to return to Winterfell as soon as possible. It was only natural that she would want to seek out the comfort of her remaining family. Sandor knew as soon as she asked him to take her that he was really her only chance, and he used that his advantage to set the wheels in motion. Asking her to marry him before this had been an outrageous idea. It would certainly never be approved by her family, and Sandor was frustrated with the little options he had left. He could continue to court her until some other younger, more handsome man snatched her up, or he could ask her to be his mistress. The latter was entirely out of the question, of course. No matter how warm the girl had become towards him, she would never willingly allow herself into that position. She was too good, too pure. The former option was much more likely, which proved to only sour his mood as he thought of the nameless suitor that would one day marry her. Maybe he could kill him and carry the little bird away…but no, that wouldn't work either. Nor would kidnapping her before any sort of marriage took place. They would constantly be on the run and Sansa would surely fight him every step of the way.

Once Sansa had appealed to him for help, however, the opportunity was just too enticing. There she was, pleading and crying, completely and utterly alone and vulnerable, with no one else to turn to but him. If he returned her to her family, they would probably want to reward him in some way, as long as he left as quickly as possible, and she would be out of his life once more. But…if he got her to promise to marry him, on her honor as a Stark, it would be much harder for them to get rid of him. The Starks were famous for their honor, and this was what Sandor counted on when he finally revealed that this was what he wanted from her. Sandor resolved that she would belong to him, even if it meant blackmailing her into marrying him.

At first he had been worried she would refuse, and try to foolishly make her way to Winterfell some other way, but he saw the desperation in her eyes, and he waited restlessly as she mulled over the agreement, no doubt weighing her options. If she was going to agree, there wasn't much time, so Sandor gently prodded her in the right direction, hoping to soften her with his promises and words of loyalty. They were true after all; Sandor had meant every one of them. When she accepted his offer at last, it was as if Christmas had come early.

Now here they were, riding through the darkness, hoping to go unnoticed by the approaching army. The little bird was sleeping soundly, tucked against his chest. His coat swallowed her small frame, but Sandor liked how it looked on her. Her head rested against his shoulder, and he took the opportunity to study her face. She truly was a beauty. And she was going to be his wife. It was almost too good to be true. Could this delicate, smart, pretty little creature truly be meant for him? Sandor wondered if perhaps it was all a dream, but then he remembered their kiss from earlier, and the memory of her soft, sweet lips shyly opening up for him made his blood run hot, and he knew he wasn't imagining things. This was real, and if they were lucky enough to make it to Winterfell, she would be his. The thought made his mouth twist into a wicked smirk, and he pulled her closer to him, wrapping one arm around her torso while his other held the reins. He lowered his face to her red curls and breathed her in.

Sandor was unsure of what the girl's thoughts were towards him. She had to be attracted to him to some measure; she enjoyed his company even though she often grew flustered and complained of his teasing or crudeness. More than once he had caught her gazing at him when she thought he wasn't looking, and her eyes hadn't been directed at his scars. But aside from that, her feelings were a mystery to him. She had agreed to marry him, yes, but Sandor did not want her to resent him for it. As much as he wanted her, he did not want her to hate him, and there was a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that she might try to wriggle her way out of their arrangement once she was safely back at home, with her family on her side. He would just have to convince her that she would be happier with him than some buggering gentleman who would never appreciate what he had, most likely throwing her to the side once she had borne him a son or two. She might never love him, but she would always be able to count on Sandor's devotion and loyalty.

He breathed in her scent again, and Sansa stirred slightly, her arm coming up to wrap around his arm, pulling it closer. Sandor adjusted himself so that she looked more comfortable, and the movement bared her white throat to him. He gazed down at the smooth skin hungrily, barely resisting the urge to press his mouth to it. He needed to stay alert and not let his desires get them killed because he wasn't paying attention. There would be time later.

Thunder rolled in the distance, and the smell of rain grew stronger. The air was slowly becoming more humid, and Sandor knew they were going to get poured on soon. He would have to find some sort of shelter for them; he couldn't have the little bird catching a cold.

The sound of voices suddenly reached his ears, and Sandor quickly pulled Stranger to a stop. Listening, he could make out a faraway rumbling that wasn't the thunder. "Damn. Little bird, wake up!"

A/N: The other one will be coming soon! And it will be Sansa's POV again, and much longer. Hope you liked reading some of Sandor's thoughts and seeing how he views the situation. As I've mentioned before, he's a difficult character for me to grasp, so if he seems a little OC please let me know. I will accept any advice!


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 7 – Part 2

Sansa jerked awake, startled by the Hound's harsh voice in her ear. "What is it?" "Hush," he rasped, bringing the horse to a stop. He climbed off, and she immediately missed the warmth he had provided her, until he reached up and pulled her off as well. He grabbed her by the elbow and began leading them down a small hill. It was black as pitch and Sansa clutched at his arm, trying to keep from stumbling. "What is it?" she asked again, in a whisper this time. "Soldiers nearby," Sandor grunted. "Hear that?" Sansa cocked her head, and heard the distant sound of many hooves and men's voices. A cold hand squeezed her heart as she realized the precariousness of their situation, and she looked around them anxiously. Stranger seemed to sense something was wrong too; the large horse snorted angrily and whinnied.

They reached the bottom of the hill just as the dark sky opened up and began to unleash a pounding of unrelenting rain. "Under here, quickly!" Sandor barked, tugging at Sansa, and she gasped when she felt cold water splash up around her ankles, rising higher until it swirled over her knees. The rain ceased falling on their heads, and Sansa discovered that they were under a small bridge, standing in a river. Lightning flashed, and for a moment she saw Sandor pulling Stranger's reins so that horse was under the bridge as well, before it went dark again. Gulping, she shivered and hugged herself, once again grateful that Sandor had given her his coat, then felt badly that all he had was a shirt. Blindly she reached out and felt for him, squeaking when a strong arm suddenly snaked around her waist and pulled her against Sandor's wet chest. "Not a sound," he murmured. Sansa froze, wondering what was happening. What about the soldiers? They were coming!

Then as suddenly as the rain had begun, Sansa heard the whinnying of horses, the shouts of men grew nearer, and the bridge thundered above. She covered her mouth with her hand. The Confederates were right over them! Mixing with sound of the heavy rain, the army clattered over the bridge, crossing over to the other side, intent on heading for Gettysburg. Blood pounded in Sansa's ears as she cowered against Sandor, praying that they went unnoticed. The Hound grasped her tightly, running a hand over her shoulder, while the other kept a firm hold on Stranger's reins. Once the horse snorted loudly, and even reared, but it only mixed in with the sounds of the horses crossing over head.

For a long time they stood in the churning river, cold and silent, waiting for the soldiers to finish their crossing. Sansa's legs grew tired and stiff, and despite Sandor's body heat she was beginning to shiver harder. The river splashed up around them, dampening Sandor's coat and more of her skirts. And still the soldiers kept coming. When would they finally go away? Goosebumps raced along her skin, and her footing slipped slightly. She clutched at Sandor desperately for purchase, and unknowingly brushed herself up against him. His arm held her steady, but she heard a rumble in his chest. Confused, she peered up at him, unable to make out his features until lightning brightened the sky once more, and she saw his eyes roaming over her, black and intense. With a growl, he lowered his head until she felt his mouth nibbling at her ear and neck.

Sansa was too baffled to even gasp. What was he doing? He yanked her closer, if that was even possible, until her chest was flush against his own, and he ran his nose up and down her temple, breathing hard. Bewilderment flooded her, and she stood still, not knowing whether to focus on his touch or on the danger that threatened their very lives. The Hound's mouth replaced his nose, and he kissed a trail down the side of her face to her neck, his mouth hot on her cold skin. She shivered and her stomach felt full of squirming snakes as an unfamiliar but not uncomfortable feeling spread through her. The impropriety of the situation screamed at her, but shattered into pieces when at last Sandor's lips found her own, burning and needy. Electric shocks jolted her as he urged their mouths into that strange dance once again, and Sansa wondered if he had perhaps gone mad.

All at once, the pounding on the bridge stopped, and the rain lessened. Sandor bit her bottom lip gently, making her jump, before pulling away and raising his head, listening. The army could still be heard, but their movements were fading quickly. He let out a breath and patted her shoulder. "Come, little bird, let's go." He led them back out to the bottom of the hill and up to the other side, walking until they were far enough away from the bridge. Sansa's legs throbbed from the cold water and from standing tensed for so long, and more than once her knees nearly buckled. Sandor noticed and quickly lifted her into the saddle, but he remained on foot, leading Stranger by the reins. Sansa leaned against the horse tiredly, wishing she was stronger. What must he think of her? Probably that she was a weak little girl, a child, incapable of handling the slightest hardship thrown her way. The thought made her glum.

The rain had softened into a mist by the time they finally stopped. Sansa wearily peered at the large building that loomed in front of them, its outline barely visible in the dark. Sandor handed her the reins and walked towards it, almost disappearing except for the ghostly white of his shirt. He came back shortly. "It's an abandoned barn," he told her as he took the reins. "Not much to it, but it's dry. We'll stay there for the rest of the night." Sansa nodded wordlessly as he helped her down and followed him inside the barn.

It was musty, and one section of the roof had caved in, but there were piles of hay still left, and the rain couldn't get to them if they stayed away from the hole in the ceiling. Sandor put Stranger in a stall and unsaddled him, tossing their bags to the ground and whispering words to the horse that were apparently calming. Sansa stood as if in a daze, swaying slightly until she finally made her way to the bags and sat down, drawing her knees up. Sandor knelt beside her and began to pull the coat off of her. She clutched at. "What are you doing?" "I'm not having you get sick, little bird," he snorted. "You'll need something dryer around you." Feeling foolish, Sansa meekly let him have the coat. He hung it on a nail to dry, then fished through her bundle. "Here, little bird, get out of that wet dress and put this one on." Sansa took the wrinkled dress she had packed earlier and stood, looking around anxiously. She was certainly not going to change in front of him, betrothed or not!

Sandor noticed her hesitation and smirked. "There's an empty stall next to Stranger," he said. "Don't worry, I won't peek." Sansa glared at him and marched away with a huff. When she was sure he couldn't see her, she quickly peeled the wet dress off and slipped into the dry one, already feeling warmer. She squeezed the rest of the water out of the fabric and hung it to dry as well.

With no better reason to stay in the dusty stall, she returned to their little camp, coming around the corner just in time to see Sandor slipping a dry shirt over his head. She came to halting stop, staring. She'd known Sandor was muscular, but…this! Dim moonlight shone through the door of the barn, allowing her to see that his chest was massive, carved and flexing lightly as his arms were raised in the air, tugging the shirt over. A scattering of dark hair trailed over his muscled abdomen, ending at the top of his pants, and she caught a glimpse of some old scars. Then the shirt dropped down, and she hastily averted her eyes, blushing, but Sandor had seen her. He blinked at her, adjusting his collar, then he grinned wickedly at her, baring his teeth. "Like something you see, little bird?" Sansa wanted to die, she was so extremely embarrassed. Why, oh, why did he have to catch her ogling him like some backwoods servant who had been taught nothing of what was proper?

He stepped closer and she could see the residue of rain water glistening on the dark chest hair that poked out from the top of his unbuttoned shirt. The smirk never left his face, and Sansa found herself rooted in place as he drew nearer. "You still look cold, little bird," he said, his voice deeper. "Come here and let me warm you." His words shook Sansa from her stupor, and she backed away. "You presume too much, sir, and take far too many liberties!" Sandor stopped then, and he gave her a confused look. "I only meant that I was going to risk building a fire," he rasped, his rough voice taking an innocent tone. Sansa blinked at him, surprised, and felt ashamed. "Of course. Forgive me." His mouth twitched and he chuckled. "And don't call me 'sir'. You know my name." She nodded, feeling horribly small and wishing she could disappear. After a moment, he turned away to one of the empty stables, where he pulled some loose boards for kindling. In no time he had a little fire blazing bravely, though Sansa noticed he didn't get any closer to it than absolutely necessary. _His scars_, she thought, and it made her sad.

Sitting on blankets, they ate the same food from earlier, but Sandor roasted some beef he had brought and it was simple yet delicious. Now warm, Sansa was beginning to feel drowsy again, and she watched as Sandor cleaned his pistols, her knees drawn up under her chin. His hands worked fluidly and with expertise, knowing exactly what went where. It was strange to think how those same hands, so rough and calloused, could also be gentle. Her mind flashed back to their kisses and how he had held her, and she was unable to hold back a soft sigh.

Here in the barn, Sandor looked much more rugged than usual. He had always exhumed an air of masculinity and strength in a brutish, harsh way, but now that he was away from town and out in the outdoors, his ruggedness was displayed with ease and confidence. _He enjoys this_, Sansa thought. _He prefers to be out in the open than closed up in buildings._ It didn't surprise her, but Sansa tucked the information away in the little corner of her mind where she kept all that she knew of Sandor Clegane.

The Hound had glanced up at the sound of her sigh. The firelight flickered of the scarred side of his face, making them look red and fearsome, but it didn't bother as it once might have. Not now that she knew the truth about them. Their eyes met and they stared at each other for countless minutes until Sandor shifted and fitted his guns back into the holster. "You should get some sleep," he told her. Sansa stood up to fix her blanket so that it made a more comfortable bed. There was a stack of hay nearby, still soft, and she spread the blanket over a clump, pushing and prodding it with her hands until she was satisfied with the results. "Making a nest?" Sandor asked from where he lay on his own blanket, stretched over the ground not far away. His hands rested behind his head and he watched her openly. The fire had dimmed down into a glow, and Sandor's eyes glittered like black coals. "I suppose so," she answered lightly, and lay down, hoping sleep would claim her quickly.

It did not, and Sansa found herself staring up at the barn roof, thinking about her engagement to the Hound. The notion was still new, and she chewed it over and over in her mind. "Sandor?" she whispered. "What, little bird?" the man grunted. "Where will we live? When we're married, I mean." Sansa had no idea if he owned a house somewhere. Hopefully it wasn't in the South, but if it was she, as his wife, would be expected to go there with him.

"I don't know yet," Sandor answered. "My family's property is in the Southwest, but my brother owns the title for it." She heard him shifting around and she glanced at the large black figure lying on the other side of the fire. "Don't worry, little bird, I'll make sure you have a someplace to build a pretty nest." He chuckled, and Sansa was glad he couldn't see her blush. "Could it be near Winterfell?" "Might be, we'll see." Sansa nodded, and covered her mouth to stifle a yawn. "Good night…Sandor." "Good night, little bird."

A/N: Awww aren't they just precious


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 8

Sansa woke up with a groan. The hay had felt somewhat comfortable the night before, but by morning it was scratchy and rough, poking through the blanket and into her dress. She sat up, covering her mouth as she yawned, and looked around. Sunlight streamed in through the barn, promising a fair day. Sandor's spot by the fire was empty, but she soon spotted him standing next to Stranger, brushing his coat and muttering to the fearsome horse in low words.

Wobbly, she stood and brushed herself off, then approached him. He glanced at her, and a grin pulled at the burned corner of his mouth. "Good morning, little bird." "Good morning." Sandor put down the brush and came to stand in front of her. Blinking, she wondered sleepily if he meant to kiss her again, but he only reached into her hair and pulled out a long piece of straw, giving a chuckle when she blushed, more from her silent assumptions than the fact that she must look positively bedraggled.

They ate quickly, as Sandor wanted to reach Winterfell before night. Sansa rolled up her other dress, now dry, and pushed into her bag. Sandor loaded their things back onto Stranger's saddle and led them out of the barn. Outside, a tree had been split in two, its bark blackened and scorched. "When did that happen?" Sansa asked, her hand flying to her mouth. "Sometime after you fell asleep," Sandor answered. "I saw the flash and the tree cracked open. You didn't even wake at the sound." Sansa wondered how she could have slept through something like that, when it had happened so close to where they were sleeping.

Sandor set her on the horse's back and climbed up behind her, surrounding her with his strong arms again. Memories of their kisses flooded back into her mind, and she squirmed, hoping he didn't hear how loudly her heart was thudding against her ribcage. He said nothing, and directed the horse back onto a path that looked barely used. Sansa wondered why he didn't cut back to the main road, but she stayed silent. He was taking her home one way or the other, and he probably had his reasons for going this way.

As they rode, Sansa could tracks from horses and carts that had been partially washed away by the storm the night before. Had the Confederates reached Gettysburg? Had the fighting commenced? Sansa shuddered, thinking of how she might have been stuck back there if not for the Hound. If the Confederates won, they would surely break into every house and steal things for their soldiers.

"Who do you think will win?" Sansa asked abruptly. "The battle? Hell if I know," Sandor answered with a shrug. "I'd bet on the Union though. Not sure how well that ragtag army that passed us last night will hold up. Still, they got this far North, could be they have a few surprises left. Either way, it will be a turning point to this war." Sansa bit her lip, and her heart ached for her father and brothers. "I wish it was over," she sighed. "So do a great many people, little bird, on both sides. But as long as there are plenty of men to fight, the blood will flow." She swallowed at his words. "You've…you said you've killed men before?" she asked timidly. He laughed. "Aye, I have. Don't look so pale. Your father and brothers have killed many men too, you know." She frowned, uncomfortable with the thought. She knew they would never take pleasure in killing someone, but Sandor Clegane sounded like _he_ might. "The world's made and built by killers, little bird," he continued, but more softly. "You better get used to looking at them."

It was a very dark view of the world, and so completely opposite of what Sansa had been taught her entire life. Yet even in her own recent experiences, she had been exposed to the horror and sadness that human beings could bring upon one another. Sansa could not help but cling to the hope that everything could be bright and fresh and good again, and there would be no more need for killing, for sons to never come home again, and children to never see their fathers walk through the front door. The war would end soon, and things would be just as they should.

And she would be married to the Hound.

They rode in silence as the sun climbed higher into the sky and the day became warmer. Sansa's back began to hurt from the combination of riding and the rough bed of hay she had slept in. She attempted to distract herself by thinking up ways to break the news of her spontaneous engagement to her mother. _Mother, this is Sandor Clegane. He used to work for the Lannisters as a ruthless mercenary, but he became a blockade-runner for the Union. I'm going to marry him. _There seemed to be no good way to explain what happened. Catelyn Stark would surely have a fit over her daughter marrying such a man, who had done such things, and so forth. No matter what Sansa said, she was sure her announcement was going to be met with explosive results. Sandor had sounded confident that her family would accept it since he had saved her from Gettysburg, but Sansa was not so sure.

The roof of a farmhouse appeared over a hill, and Sandor rode slowly towards it. As they got closer, Sansa saw that the roof was blackened and burned, and the yard looked a mess. A farmer and his wife were milling about, and it was entirely too quite. They passed by and didn't earn so much as a glance from the couple. "What happened?" Sansa whispered, turning so she could look over her shoulder. "War," Sandor grumbled. "The Confederates probably took their livestock and supplies for their army. Probably ransacked them right before we met them at the bridge." Sansa swallowed a lump in her throat and clenched her fists. Everything was so ruined and spoiled, all because of the war. She did not want there to be slaves, but couldn't something be resolved without wrecking the country? If there was, she was sure President Lincoln would figure it out. He was a good man.

Sansa had seen him once. He had given a speech in the next town over, and the Starks had piled into a wagon and driven over to see him. Sansa had to stand to see over the people, and she watched as a tall, thin man with a beard and kind eyes spoke. Ned Stark had shaken his hand later, and Sansa thought she had never seen her father look more proud.

The day wore on, and Sansa was getting more uncomfortable and nervous. The saddle hurt her back, and she was anxious about the reception of the large man sitting behind her. As much as she wanted to see her mother and little brothers, she dreaded the inevitable confrontation that would occur. A thousand arguments ran through her head as she sought for ways to convince her mother to agree to the marriage. Sandor had been kind to her, courted her even, and he protected her. Surely that would count for something. Yet given his background and character, Sansa wasn't sure it would be enough.

"Sandor," she began, "I'm…I'm not sure how we should tell my mother of our…engagement." She felt him shift behind her, and he said nothing for a moment. "I suppose we'll simply tell her and see what happens," he answered with a shrug. Sansa bit her lip. Wasn't he worried at all? She decided to give up and wait until they were in Winterfell before she was concerned about their situation again.

The sun was swinging low in the sky when they finally reached the main road heading for Winterfell. Sansa leaned forward in the saddle eagerly, as if that would help move them along faster. She wished Stranger would gallop, but she knew the poor horse had been carrying them all day. It didn't keep her from fidgeting though. "Easy, little bird, we'll get there," Sandor grunted behind her, and he reached a hand up to smooth back one of her curls. His hand was warm, and Sansa found herself leaning into his touch. He stopped when the town came into view.

Home was so close Sansa could almost taste it, and she did not want to go through town. They would surely be stopped and asked a thousand questions, and Sansa had no time for that. "There's a short-cut," she told Sandor, pointing to a pathway through a small wooded area. "I do not wish to enter town just yet." He said nothing, and she twisted around to look up at him. His face was set hard, mouth drawn in a line as he stared at the town before them. "What is it?" she asked. "Something's not right," he rasped, his eyes narrowing. Sansa forward again, but she could see nothing unusual. It was a little quiet, perhaps, but it was as if everyone was holding their breaths, waiting for news from Gettysburg. Sandor clicked Stranger into a trot, and they headed for the path she had pointed out. He was very quiet, and his chest was stiff against her back.

The woods were quiet too, and soon Sansa could see her family's property through the trees. The hills and fields called to her, and she wanted to jump off Stranger and run, fly, if only it would get her home sooner. But she was a lady, not a child, and so she restrained herself, gripping the front of the saddle until her knuckles turned white.

The trees parted at last, and the blessed house stood before them, the setting sun casting shadows over it. The yard was quiet as well, and Sansa looked around, confused. Where was everyone? It was late, so she supposed their workers had gone home, but there was usually someone about. No matter, she was home! Sansa wanted to sing she was so happy. Any minute now, Septa Mordane would open the front door, and Bran and Rickon would tumble outside to meet them, followed by her mother.

They rode up to the front steps and Sandor dismounted, helping Sansa down after. "Thank you," she said, squeezing his forearms warmly, not noticing his distracted face, then she turned and hurried up the steps, clutching her skirts in one hand. "Mother! Mother, I'm home!" she called, reaching for the door. It swung open easily, and she entered the hall.

The house was much as she had left it, but it was uncommonly still. She hesitated, confused, until a familiar figure appeared on the stairs. "Oh! Miss Sansa!" Septa Mordane moved down the stairs faster than Sansa had ever seen her, and she was enveloped in a large hug. "Oh, thank goodness you're alright! However did you get out of Gettysburg?" "Sandor Clegane helped me," Sansa answered, smiling, then gazed around the Septa eagerly. "Who? Oh…" her septa looked startled, and Sansa turned to see that Sandor had followed her inside. His eyes rested on her with a strange look in them. "Yes. Where's mother?" As happy as she was to see Mordane, she wasn't who Sansa longed to see the most.

Mordane pulled back, stiffening somewhat, and she ran her tongue nervously over lips and her eyes darted her and there, avoiding Sansa. "The whole town has been struck by the fever, Miss Sansa. I've never seen anything like it. Almost everyone's been sick. But they're getting better now…" "Oh, I see," Sansa answered distractedly, barely registering Mordane's words. Where was Catelyn Stark? "Your brothers…the little ones…they got the fever too, but they're young and healing up right fast." Mordane was clutching some towels, and was wringing them now in her hands. Sansa heard that part. "Oh dear, I must see them soon, too. If it's not catching still. But tell me, where's Mother? Is she seeing to someone in town?" It would be just like Catelyn to go tend to the sick. Perhaps she wasn't home yet.

The Septa was trembling. "Lady Catelyn…she got the fever too…" her voice trailed off with a catch and she stared at Sansa almost fearfully.

Sansa pulled away, her heart beating as a swell of anxiety rose within her. She looked this way and that, as if Catelyn would suddenly materialize out of the air. "Mother?" she called hesitantly, moving towards the stairs. No answer. She walked to the open door of the study. "Mother?" A hand closed around her frantically beating heart. She turned and looked back at Mordane. "Mother?' she asked, her voice breaking. Mordane lowered her eyes, then glance towards the closed door of the smaller parlor, across from the staircase.

Sansa walked towards it and placed her sweating palm on the handle, and turned it silently. The door opened, and she stepped into the dimly lit room, closing the door behind her.

Before her was a table with sheets covering it, surrounded by low-burning candles. Behind it was another table with flowers and a cross and a Bible. Under the sheets was a form. Sansa approached it, her breathing stilled as fear gripped at her. Slowly she lifted her hand and took hold of one end of the sheet, pulling it until she saw the figure underneath.

It was Catelyn Stark, and she was dead.

A bucket of ice was poured on top of Sansa, draining her of warmth and feeling, and she collapsed before the table with a scream, and sobs racked her chest and she clutched the sheet in her fists.

* * *

The candles were almost completely snuffed out by the time Sansa finally rose and quitted the parlor, wiping her face with the back of her hand. She was immediately greeted by Mordane, who looked worried and sad. "I'm so sorry, Miss Sansa," she said, taking Sansa's hand. She only nodded, feeling as if she was trapped inside a nightmare. "I've set some soup out for you, if you're hungry." Food. How could she ever eat again? "No, thank you, I…I think I will go for a walk." She extricated herself from the septa's arms and left through the front door, walking in a daze across the yard and towards the fields.

The sun was just barely peeking over the horizon now, but Sansa knew this land by heart, and she did not need the light to see. As she passed the barn at a distance, she saw Sandor standing inside with Stranger, brushing him down. He saw her, too, hesitated, then began to walk towards her. She continued on, knowing he would catch up. Her feet had a mind of their own, and they carried her to the top of a hill where she could look down on some of the fields and a winding stream. She used to sit there often as a little girl, picking flowers and making crowns for herself and bouquets for her mother and father. It did nothing to ease the pain in her chest.

She stood there for a long time, blankly staring before her as the wind softly pulled at her hair and dried the continual stream of tears running down her cheeks, until a shadow fell on the grass beside her. "Little bird," she heard him rumble softly, but he did not reach for her. Maybe he was afraid. She was afraid too, she decided, afraid that if he touched her should break into a thousand pieces and be swept away into the wind. Sansa suddenly yearned to be comforted, no matter what happened to her as a result, and she turned to face him.

He was close, and she could feel the warmth radiating from him. Her eyes rested on his chest, at his arms, then trailed up to his face. He was studying her, concern written on his features as he took in her tear-streaked cheeks. His grey eyes were filled with something she couldn't name, but she found herself transfixed by them. Ever so slightly, his hands twitched towards her, rising upwards hesitantly, and she flew into his arms, burying her face against his travel-worn shirt as fresh sobs escaped her mouth. He said nothing, but his arms encircled her, holding her tight, and he rested his chin on the top of her head. One of his large hands ran a path up and down her back.

Sansa wasn't sure how long they stood there, but finally she spoke. "What am I to do?" The thought that she would have to live so soon without her mother had never occurred to her. She would marry soon, yes, but Catelyn would have always been there. Now she had no one, no one to give her advice or guide her. The woman that Sansa had wanted to model after so dearly had vanished from her life, and Sansa had no idea how to continue on. Did Bran and Rickon know about their mother? How could she tell them?

Sandor brushed his fingers against her hair. "You've still got your brothers, little bird." She felt the rumbling of his voice through his chest. "For what it's worth, you've got me. I'm not going anywhere." He pulled her back a little and tipped her chin up so he could look him in the eye. "Whatever you need, I'll help you. Believe that." Sansa stared up at him, wonderingly, and wished she could take some of his strength and will-power. His words swam in her head, and she latched onto them. _He won't leave me_, she thought. _He'll stay_. The pad of his thumb wiped her face, clearing the tracks that tears had left.

She was lost in a sea of confusion, pain, and heartbreak, but Sandor was a lifeline, and Sansa clung to the security he offered. "Come, little bird, let's get you back to the house," Sandor murmured, placing a soft kiss on top of her forehead before turning, keeping his arm wrapped around her and leading them down the hill.

A/N: This was hard for me to write, in more ways than one. Poor Starks can't catch a break can they? Thank you again for reading, I'm sorry this update took so long!


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